


An Approach to Academic Temerity

by Whreflections



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Breeding Facility, Canon-Typical Violence, Clinical Handjob, Dehumanization, Dubious Ethics, Extremely Dubious Consent, Good Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Past Underage Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, M/M, Mating Bites, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Restraints, Slow Burn, Violence, Watersports, essentially, kind of, though that will somewhat depend on your definition of good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: Alphas, omegas, and betas are a separate species- one considered sub human.  They're parasapients, and varieties of them can be found in zoos and in the wilderness, working for police departments and on people's couches.Hannibal Lecter was born on a wealthy estate, only to be shuffled from shelter to shelter until he ended up first intended for military use then retired early for use as a stud alpha in a government breeding program.  He's notoriously difficult, unpredictable, and almost out of chances.Will Graham is a brilliantly gifted parasapient trainer and researcher, who has a secret even those who've read his revolutionary papers and books don't know- he doesn't think parasapients are subhuman at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hell. 
> 
> This is...utter filth, guys. Well. Right now there's no porn, per se, though sexual aspects are discussed pretty freely. 
> 
> I originally intended for this to be a weird little oneshot but then I was like nah, it can't be, I have too much in my head for what happens after it, lol ~~But, I have no plans for this to be...a traditionally cohesive story? Probably more like a collection of oneshots all gathered in this place, following Hannibal and Will? maybe one here and there that goes back to before they met each other? We'll see.~~
> 
> Who was I kidding. Forget that bit; this is definitely going to be a WIP. Thanks, guys, for all the awesome feedback so far. I very, very much appreciate it. 
> 
> ...and I mean it, this is filth, XD

The keeper waited to speak until they were out of the elevator.  By the cadence of her fingers drumming on the railing, she’d been wanting to from the minute the doors closed. 

“He’s not like the doctor makes it sound, you know.  I mean—“  In a glance, she took in Will’s raised eyebrows, his invitation to continue.  “—he did every one of those things in his file, but it’s not that simple.  That keeper whose finger he broke when he was on his way to being on loan at the Memphis Zoo, he was trying to put a diaper on him cause he didn’t want to go through the hassle of leashing Hannibal up to take him outside.”

From what Will had seen in the glossy evidence pictures in the file in his hand, _broken_ was an understatement.  The man’s finger had been bent so far backward the skin had ripped on the underside of his palm, exposing tendon and bone.  Will shifted his grip on the file, his pace slowing.  From either side he could the sounds of the kennel echoing on and on,  somewhat muffled behind glass and closed doors.  To the right, he could hear a desperate omega keening, the blurred shape of them thrusting against the floor caught in the corner of his eye.  Typically, he liked to pass through central halls like this as quick as possible to stop the onslaught—he could already feel the first threatening tinges of a migraine.  Still, there was nothing for it.  This was valuable information, more relevant to the task he’d be taking on than any of the last hour he’d spent in Chilton’s office had been. 

“What about the handler he bit during the last attempt at using him for live cover?” 

The keeper—Keziah Barney, based on her faded patch on the front of her shirt, unstitched and curling from one corner—shook her head.   “I told them not to use that man with him, but I wasn’t here.  They don’t half read the charts around here; sometimes I wonder—“ Whatever she wondered, she waved it off and pressed on without it.  “I’d worked with him before, heard him making comments.  No quicker way of setting Hannibal off and making sure he won’t listen than making fun of him, and I’d bet my life he said something after Hannibal mounted.  I know it sounds silly to most people and Dr. Chilton talks over me quick whenever I say it, but he’s got his pride.”

“Anyone who’s current on parasapient behavioral science wouldn’t write it off so easily; in my last paper—“ 

The smile tugging at the corner of Barney’s mouth told Will he needn’t go any further; she already knew.  Will was a firm believer that the keepers and handlers working with them every day were almost always more well versed on their charges than most large scale parasapient owners and supposed 'behaviorists' ever became, and from what he’d heard of Frederick Chilton it was safe to assume that rule would carry double strength, here.  The man responsible for letting a private citizen buy a wild creature like Abel Gideon could hardly be a good, stable judge of behavior. 

Will’s eyes tracked a moth pinging against the ceiling as it drifted down the hall, drawn between the lights of the enclosures and the fluorescents above him.  “The way you see it…all of Hannibal Lecter’s incidents of violence have been provoked.”  No need for a question when he could feel it virtually vibrating off her, the need to keep explaining, to make him understand.

“Mm.  In some way or other, but what he considers provocation isn’t always what you’d expect.  Me and him, we get along just fine but that’s because I just treat him like I know I’d want to be treated.  He’s no housepet that’s for damn sure, but he’s no uncontrollable savage.”  Will could feel the pause she rolled on her tongue as thick as if it weighted his own, an unsteadying pressure.  He breathed, slowed again to wait it out with her. 

A loud smack against the glass almost made him jump. 

“Hey, hey doc; collect me or let me out of this thing; my nuts are gonna burst; hey—“  The alpha banged his shoulder against the glass again, arms straining against his straightjacket, cock bouncing heavy and red, smearing already smudged glass with a sticky trail. 

Barney sighed.  “Look, Mr. Graham, I know we aren’t supposed to get attached because it’s not often any of these are the kind that eventually make it up for adoption and I usually do pretty good, but Hannibal’s good company and I can’t stand the thought of him sold off to that damn butcher.  He’d get himself killed for sure.  I can’t just watch that happen; I’d quit first.” 

Will’s stomach turned, instinctive and sharp.  Any man that’d sell a parasapient to Mason Verger after all he’d done to oppose safety and health regulations ought to be shot.  His jaw clenched, his thumb rubbing over the sharp corner of the file as he nodded once. 

“Just give us some distance and let me work with him.  Once we understand one another, I think we’ll be alright.” 

\-----

The very air in Hannibal’s enclosure felt thick. Irrationally so—it was no warmer or cooler than the hall, no scent to it but that of the alpha himself, and even that wasn’t overpowering.  If he’d scent marked anything in this place, he’d done it… _delicately_ , was the word that came to mind.  Sparingly.  With only a single inhale Will could close his eyes and see him doing it, the way he’d take a book from the shelf and rub it gently against the scent gland on the underside of his jaw.  The careful process of gathering precome in his hand and massaging it into his mattress. 

Hannibal rose smoothly from his chair, carefully tucking it back in under the desk before he regarded Will, hands behind his back.  “Am I not to be restrained before our session?”  With the tilt of his head and the angle of light, his eyes were too dark to even judge the size of his pupils.  Not that it mattered, really.  He didn’t expect this one to show any fear responses, and from all he’d read, none of the attacks he’d ever made had been precipitated by any sort of dominance display. 

Will set the file down on an equipment table by the door, _Use Caution_ and _Muzzle for All Procedures_ stickers facing down.  “I only use restraints when I’ve determined they’re necessary, and I don’t base that judgment off someone else’s recommendation.”

The dip of Hannibal’s head seemed pleased.  “And your reputation for judgment precedes you, Mr. Graham.  Barney has all of your books.”  A smile pulled his lips, but it was thin, polite.  There was tension in him hovering beneath it, like a taunt guitar string.  He hadn’t judged Will entirely, yet.  “We read to each other sometimes on the night shift.  Of course, her books are more interesting than mine but it’s only polite to share what I’m able.” 

Will ambled right, aimless and unthreatening, only coming closer by small degrees.  “She had good things to say about you.”

“An outlier to your previous data, I’d imagine.” 

“Like I said, I prefer to collect date for myself.  Reports can be biased; evidence is unflinchingly honest.”   

“And did you flinch, reading those biased reports?” 

Will exhaled around the sudden tightness in his throat, the hair-raising tingle across his skin.  Hannibal’s voice was mild and he hadn’t moved an inch but there was something predatory in his quiet, like a coiled cat.  “Cassandra Boyle.  You bit her mouth and swallowed the pieces; yes or no?”

“Yes.”  No hesitation, no remorse.  His tongue darted out, wetting his lips.  “Shall I tell you why?” 

“Please do.” 

“I’d already been collected from not a half hour beforehand; I told her I was too still too sensitive for traditional collection and would need the probe.  She was unwilling to take the time to get the equipment so I reacted in self-defense.”

“The standard argument most would give is that as a handler she could determine whether there’d be any real damage, and if she’d hurt you she would have been...”  Dismissed, from a facility like this one?  Unlikely.  “Reprimanded.  There could have been an investigation, if you asked for a government inquiry.”

“And if you agreed with that argument, you wouldn’t have bothered to quantify it.” 

Will’s huff of laughter was sudden and mirthless, a show of agreement he hadn’t intended but didn’t regret.  Not when he could see something in Hannibal’s shoulders ease, like cloth smoothed. 

“May I venture a guess that those extenuating circumstances weren’t recorded in the file?”

“You may.”  Forcing his spine into a straighter line, Will took an easy step closer, continued at the same steady pace when the first came without incident.  “And may I start fresh?  If I’m discarding your file, I have to make my own.  I like to start with an examination.” 

“Of course, Mr. Graham.”  For most well raised parasapiets, a resting stance came to them naturally from years of practice, but the way Hannibal widened his stance and exhaled seemed practiced, deliberate.  The flare of nostrils as Will cupped the back of his neck seemed far more a genuine reflex.

“I’m just Will, Hannibal.  We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”  Raking his fingers through Hannibal’s hair to test the waters felt more like sating a magnetic itch of his own, the strands silk soft against his palm.  Hannibal sighed and tilted into it, the very picture of content. 

He opened his mouth for Will without protest or nipping, exposing the sharp , predatory lines of his teeth, turned his head to let Will feel out the scent glands on either side of his jawline.  His scent was strong there, musky and rich yet somehow soft, like figs soaked in wine.  Drifting down, he traced scars he filed away in his mind for later research, rubbed nipples that proved sensitive though it was easy enough to get Hannibal to settle into the touch with a simple murmured _you’re doing good; be still_. 

Between his legs, his cock hung soft but already decent sized, promising good reach when he dropped, his testicles relaxed and average, not undersized but not showy like some alphas he’d seen.  The gentle pressure of a hand to his flank produced no change, nothing but the even stir of his breath against Will’s curls, the dark eyes he knew would still be watching him when he looked up to meet them.  This close, he could see it was the color that made the pupils hard to see, though with the light shining better on him now he could see the flecks of color there, blood red and gold all mingled with amber.  Too slight to be ignored, too little to look overly unnatural.  An unsettling beauty. 

Will stroked his flank again, from ribcage to hipbone.  “Were you not taught pressure points when you came of age?” 

“I came of age at a shelter; our education was more…rudimentary.” 

Will stroked his thumb against the jut of bone below skin, soothing as he considered.  He’d read of the place Hannibal had been taken to after the estate he’d been born at had been destroyed by military action.  From all that Will had read, it seemed he’d been the sole surviving pup from that kennel, on his own in the woods when they found him.  With the conditions in many shelters, especially in years past, it wasn’t such a leap to think they hadn’t had time to train him properly.  Hell, it was a miracle they hadn’t gelded him but many people kept even their pets intact and it’d likely been cheaper to avoid the surgery. 

“I’ve never had a problem dropping when needed, even without scent.  If you’d like—“

Will squeezed his shoulder, cutting off his train of thought.  As a reward for falling quiet, Will squeezed gently again.  “Not now, but thank you.  The problem isn’t whether or not you _can_ drop, it’s whether or not you can do it unconsciously.  When you work yourself into it, you’re thinking about it.  It takes time, and you’re having to reach for it.  When I touch you and it happens without any thought…”  To illustrate, Will dragged his palm down past Hannibal’s ribs again, a slow, even stroke.  “That’s the benefit of training.  It frees you to enjoy the process without having to struggle to get there.”

“ ‘Free’ is an interesting term.  I’d associate that more with erections that happen outside sessions entirely, for the sake of my body’s own whims.”   The reflex to catch Hannibal’s gaze was too strong to deny, the punch to his gut when he couldn’t hold that point of contact stronger still.  His stomach felt jittery, loaded with gnawing teeth.  “I find most trainers I’ve had discourage those natural responses.” 

 _Most trainers are afraid their subjects have gotten too randy and are looking to mount them._  

Will’s teeth pinched hard at the tip of his tongue, his focus shifting back to the work of his hands.  He pressed lightly at Hannibal’s belly, waiting until the familiar motions of examination steadied him.  “I don’t _dis_ courage them; normally I’m in full support but since you’re in active rotation in a breeding program you can’t just relieve that pressure whenever you feel like it.  So no, you won’t be punished for dropping when you shouldn’t, but if you can’t get it back under control I will apply an ice pack to help you.”  The first trainer he’d worked with in Louisiana had taken a fly swatter or a riding crop to the cocks of any alpha that dropped without request.  They learned pretty quick, but Will’s nausea lingered far longer. 

“Quite civilized of you.” 

Despite the attention his paper on emotional expression in parasapients had gotten, if he pinned the word he wanted to to that remark he’d likely be laughed out.  Still, he could feel it, taste the sharp edged flavor of such cool, dry sarcasm.  Will swallowed, crouched to continue his exam.  Many handlers had been pissed on like this, but Hannibal didn’t seem the type.  Not by a long shot.  Gently, Will took his cock in hand and tugged the foreskin back, exposing the slick head.  Beyond a little subtle thickening, he remained soft, pliable.  Will eased his foreskin back into place. 

“In your file I noticed you’ve been marked for occasional diaper use.  Do you have times when house training is harder for you than others?  Leakage if you get distracted?”

“I have times when Dr. Chilton sees fit to restrict my privileges.  When cut down to a single trip outside per day and with my sanitary drain covered, I choose to request diapers and relieve myself when I feel the need rather than attempt to wait and lose control like a pup.”

Even as the bald truth of it shocked him, Will couldn’t say he doubted it, not after meeting the man.  Still, to imagine that he’d jeopardize basic training and force one of his charges into a situation that could cause significant stress…he’d hardly been employed a day.  It wouldn’t do to file a request for a federal inquiry.  Not yet. 

“Whatever his reasons, that stops now; I’ll make sure of it.  I don’t use punishments that actively work against training.”  The murmured _thank you_ that received washed over him to be answered by a low sound, already distracted by the weight of Hannibal’s testicles in his palm.  He was clean shaven, his skin soft, the tissue itself heavy enough to feel substantial.  Better still, his body didn’t retreat but rather let itself be touched and manipulated, no sudden shift to pull in high and tight against his abdomen.  “Do you ever have any pain here after collection?” 

“Only if it’s excessive.  Three times in the span of a few hours is my limit.”  His inhalation was expectant.  Will could feel him looking at the file. 

Will’s mouth curved, his knuckles rapping so light they barely made contact against Hannibal’s hip.  “I’m throwing almost everything in there out, remember.  I believe in primary sources.” 

When he rose and ran his hands down Hannibal’s back, the cords of muscle he could feel beneath his fingers didn’t seem to jut and bulge the way they had when he’d walked in.  Softer, less prepared.  Will massaged lightly with his thumbs down the line of Hannibal’s spine, repeated the motion when Hannibal dipped his head forward just a touch.  It wasn’t the throaty growl of a purr he knew Hannibal to be capable of; it wasn’t even a strong indication of pleasure or submission, but it was a subtle lick of progress, and he’d take it.  He’d _chase_ it. 

With each pass, he brought his hands lower on Hannibal’s back until he was standing with his legs a little further spread, the slight bend in his spine a little more natural.  Then, Will crouched and spread the cheeks of his ass, examining the muscle between.  Good tone, when he pressed against it—Hannibal’s body gave to him and let the pad of his thumb press in without tensing, but he was tight enough to cling a little when Will’s thumb withdrew. 

Hannibal himself was soundless, still as glass.  Will rubbed his thigh in encouragement.  “No negative experiences taking a probe?”

“None worth mentioning.” 

Not an answer, and a reminder that though he didn’t trust the file, he’d need to dig a little deeper into that shelter Hannibal had started at.  Not an answer, no, but good enough for now.  Will patted his thigh again and rose back to his full height, pacing back toward the center of the room so he could see his charge from the front. 

“If you had your choice, which method of breeding do you prefer?” 

“Actual breeding.”  The answer came easy, but there was a lick of humor in the tilt of his mouth, the sparkle in his eyes.  “Is that not a universal answer?”

“Not at all.  It’s common among young alphas who haven’t done this long, but for an alpha of your age, the answer is almost always collection.  The lack of opportunity to take a mate becomes frustrating.”  A polite word for impolite events.  The last alpha he’d seen too burnt out for further use spent hours banging his muzzle against the wall of his cell, lost in his own memories, teeth constantly snapping behind the grate. 

Hannibal looked away, something nearly shy and almost omega pretty about him for a moment.  He blinked, and the window closed.  “I’ve never felt the desire to take a mate, so the lack of opportunity to do so doesn’t trouble me.  I can enjoy the experience without wanting more from it.” 

He could, and he clearly had, but his wording niggled at the back of Will’s mind, catching like a burr.  He’d never felt the desire, no, but…that didn’t preclude the possibility that he might _want_ to feel that desire.  He wasn’t uncomfortable, now, but he hadn’t entirely been forthcoming, either.  Another piece for another time, placed too far away from the others he’d gathered.  If he’d been hoping to come away from here with a full picture of Hannibal Lecter, he wasn’t going to get it. 

Truth be told, he was glad.  He could see, now, some measure of what Barney had seen in this alpha, what Will himself had hoped he’d find.  A staggeringly sharp mind, and fascinating expression of it. 

“If that’s how you feel, we’ll work toward getting you cleared for use in live cover again but I make no promises.  We’d have to be able to prove to them that my control over you is bulletproof, after what’s happened in the past.  It’ll take work.”

“I look forward to it.”  Nothing there but calm, mild interest.  Nothing to betray that this was the same creature that had once ripped out the throat of a man he’d spent weeks fighting for. 

Now, perhaps, was the time to bring that up.  “Paul Momund.” 

The clench in Hannibal’s jaw was so swift, so quickly banished.  Beyond it, there might as well have been no response at all—no shiver up his spine, no twitch from his cock. 

“You worked with him for two months without a single word spoken then you ripped his throat out in front of fifteen people.”

“I did.” 

Not at all unexpected, given how he’d answered Will’s prior questions about his…incidents.  Will leaned back against the table and crossed his arms over his chest, studying.  “And how did you feel, afterward?”

Hannibal’s mouth opened, closed again in consideration.  If the subtle shift in his neck and jaw were any indication, this wasn’t a question he’d expected.  Despite what he’d said about the file, if any one at any point had asked Hannibal this in the past, Will probably wouldn’t have bothered, but no one did, no one tried.  Emotional outbursts were considered, by and large, a human trait. 

When Hannibal spoke, he wet his lips first, tongue hesitating afterward to trace the fine points of his front teeth.  “Hungry.  Successful.  Cold.  It was early spring, and they took my clothes before they tied me in the truck.” 

Will almost let his eyes close, almost tried to take himself there, back to France and early spring and a teenage alpha with blood on his mouth being stripped naked in air cold enough to mist his breath. 

Almost, but the picture was incomplete and it wasn’t wise to take his eyes off this one, not yet.  No matter what Barney said, or what he himself thought.  Best to wait, and learn, and know. 

“Thank you, Hannibal.”  The rapidity with which he met Will’s eyes was almost comically sudden, his hair for a moment falling charmingly down below his eyebrows.  Under different circumstances, he would have made someone a fine show specimen.  A housepet.  “That’s enough for today.” 

Another alpha dismissed might have returned to their bed, petulant and tired from such a thorough examination.  This one stayed, his shoulders only barely rounding further as he relaxed.

Will stepped away from the table, only paused on his way to the door to study Hannibal again when it seemed like an afterthought.  “I’ll be back tomorrow to begin your training.  I know you’ll have done a lot of before, but I want to start pretty fresh.  A lot of it’s reward based, so I need you to tell me what you want, other than a chance at live cover.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose.  “It isn’t standard?”

“Has it been?”

“Suffice it to say Dr. Chilton’s chocolate cake is a reward so encouraging I’d do much not to receive it.”

The reality of Will’s laughter shocked even himself, startled and still warm.  This one was worth leaving the FBI academy, absolutely. 

Hannibal’s answering smile made it all the better.  “As you can see, I enjoy my books, such as they are.” 

“Parasapient books?”

“Of course.”

In an instant, Will’s decision was made, formed and said before he could reconsider.  “I’ll bring you some of mine.” 

Before he could let himself linger too long in the sudden charge in the air between them, or even answer the boring questions he could feel in Hannibal’s suddenly sharp gaze, Will collected the file, and left. 

Some would call it blasphemy, what he’d suggested.  Others, stupidity.  A waste of resources or a waste of time at the very least, but Will had realized some time ago just how many studies hadn’t been done because the answers were assumed—or because they made the askers uncomfortable.  Could Hannibal comprehend a book on music theory?  On fly fishing?  A novel above an eighth grade level? 

No one who knew those answers had ever credibly talked about them, and maybe he wouldn’t either, but soon enough, he’d know.  That’d be something, and maybe, enough to save this one from Mason Verger.  That’d be a victory to make his papers worth the ridicule, all by itself. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, though it's not like, traditional watersports and is more...animalistic, there is piss present at one point in this chapter. It's not extensive and it's over pretty fast, but it's there in case that squicks anyone.

Alone in his house with a tumbler of whiskey neat in his hand, Will opened Hannibal’s file again.  One side rested against Winston’s head where it lay heavy on his thigh, pages and pictures not secured in place tilting to peek out in a cascade beneath those that were.  He’d meant what he said when he told Hannibal he didn’t trust the judgments of those that recorded this file, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a treasure trove of information still to be gleaned from it with his own eyes.  Not everything in here was supposition, and the file was massive.  He’d been in government facilities in four different countries, including the six months he was loaned to the Toronto Zoo. 

To study him properly, fully, Will would have to start at the beginning, both with training and with his history. 

Unsurprisingly, the first pages were incredibly sparse. 

 

 _Alpha male pup, approx._ _3 years_

_No tattoo ID_

_Tagged Lecter, Hannibal_  

 

The initial picture that had been taken was blurry, but it showed a bone thin pup of around the same size and maturity as an 8-9 year old human boy.  His ribs were bruised purple and yellow, and low on his hip on the left side was what looked like a burn.  Will squinted, but when he pulled the picture close the details fuzzed out too much to see.  Around his neck there was a vicious mass of wounds in angry red lines, highlighted yellow with pus.  His face wasn’t pictured above the chin. 

Will swirled his whiskey, took a sip then settled his glass to scratch absently behind Winston’s ears.  Nothing of actual fact recorded in here would be irrelevant, but that wound at his neck…what was it Chilton had said, when Will had asked about the types of restraint they’d used with him?  How had he phrased it?

_An inexplicable response to the leash; it’s absurd.  You can’t hold him, four men couldn’t.  It has to be a restrictive harness or a straightjacket, for his own safety as well as ours.  You’ll understand, of course; absurd parasapient fears.  You know, I read a study where-_

In the moment, he hadn’t wanted to hear Chilton ramble; he certainly didn’t want to relive it in his mind.  Will dismissed the memory with a soft sound of displeasure, ended up catching shifting pages when Winston took that as a reason to rise. 

“Easy, bud.  That wasn’t about you.”  Will scritched at the thick ruff of fur around his neck and Winston resettled with a sigh, not precisely where he’d rested before.  His nose was wedged a little more firmly against Will’s other leg, now.  Will had always suspected it was the collie in him that made him so attentive, but whether it was a natural tendency or just Winston himself, Will was grateful for it.  He loved every one of his dogs equally, of course he did, but it was…nice, if only partial effective, to have one that tried so extra hard to look after him, too. 

Will’s finger traced the edges of the wound on the picture, its fall in two clear bands that curved across his collar bone, higher against the soft skin of his throat.  Much like a thick choke chain, left to fall loose and chafe then drawn in again bruisingly tight.  Hot from the fire that burned his hip, perhaps…hot enough to sear skin—

Abruptly, Will closed the file, disarrayed pieces sticking out at all angles as he pressed his thumb hard just above the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.  The images had sharpened too quickly, too authentically.  He wasn’t ready to cast himself back to that moment fully, not yet. 

Instead, he could focus on altering his plans for Hannibal tomorrow.  He’d intended to try a simple leather collar with him in defiance of Chilton’s expectations, but clearly that’d be out of the question.  He’d be able to defuse the situation if Hannibal reacted, no doubt, but they’d seemed to start out on good footing, today.  It would be cruel—and foolish—to jeopardize that for the sake of interpreting Hannibal’s reaction to the prospect when he could imagine it well enough already.  More akin to self-defense, as Hannibal had called it, than an irrational, simplistic fear.  If a dog had been beat, it was only common sense to flinch from the whip, and he could imagine Hannibal flinching from nothing.  Those that didn’t flinch lunged, but that, too, was sensible.  The drive to live was strong, even if that life was full of parameters laid by other hands. 

Will took another sip of his whiskey as he sat the file aside, brushed a kiss to the bridge of Winston’s nose before gently relocating his muzzle to the couch.  In the trunk upstairs he had the harness he’d used with Anthony, still well-oiled and soft.  He’d have to let it out some to fit this one’s broad shoulders, but it would give him a place to start of his own choosing, without any of Chilton’s contraptions.  An alpha controlled with clamps at their nipples that could slice through with too fierce of a tug wasn’t an alpha _controlled_ at all. 

Before he retrieved that, though, he wanted to go ahead and prepare to make good on his promise.  A few books, kept in his bag and doled out one at a time for good behavior.  Pacing back and forth with his fingers trailing the spine he selected _What A Trout Sees_ , _The Art of Racing in the Rain_ , _The Color Purple_ , _The Life of Mozart_ , and a book of classical sheet music.  Tomorrow, he’d stop at the library on the way to work to get something to go with it. 

\-----

Hannibal eyed the harness in Will’s hands with thinly veiled shock, for the span of a second at most.  He schooled himself quick, but Will caught the widening of his pupils, the slight rock back on his heels.  Outwardly, he clasped his wrist behind his back and surveyed the leather Will held as if it were a bolt of cloth held out for his perusal. 

“Is that all?”

“It is.  Hold out your arms, please.” 

Slowly, like a crane unfolding its wings, Hannibal stretched his arms out to either side, giving Will access to slide one loop of the harness down his right arm.  He busied himself with the buckle around the other in silence, tightening the supple brown leather with the speed of long practice, slipping fingers underneath to check the fit.

“You aren’t afraid I’ll pull away from you?”

Will’s snort of laughter huffed against Hannibal’s chest and the backs of his own hands, close as he was to the front buckle.  “If I relied on strength to hold an alpha, I’d be a piss poor trainer, wouldn’t I?”  Before Hannibal could answer, Will’s eyes flicked up to meet his, honest and firm with his convictions.  “You won’t pull away from me because I’m trying to help you.  If you work well with me, you can stay, and I’ll stay.  If you don’t, Dr. Chilton’s already received an offer for you from Mason Verger.  He’ll take it.” 

“Mason Verger…”  Hannibal tilted his head back, as if he was thinking.  Will very much doubted it.  He couldn’t believe any parasapient who’d heard that one’s name would soon forget it.  “He was involved in that black market court case.  Felony charges of cruelty and indecency.”

“Yeah, well.  He was acquitted.” 

“An innocent man, then.”

It was chilling, even for Will, to hear such clear…not loathing, precisely, but distaste.  Disdain.  A shiver that felt like crawling bone traced up Will’s spine, and he cinched the final strap a little tighter, his eyes on his work.  “As innocent as Dr. Chilton is, I’d say, and of far worse crimes.”  Will’s murmur was deliberately low, his warning in his eyes when he looked up.  “His parasapients live in stalls, from what I’ve heard, and that’s the best of it.  You don’t want to go there, Hannibal.”

“And will you?”  At the surprise that must have shown in the slight step back he took, Hannibal clarified, his head tilted, observing.  “Stay, I mean, if I do.  Do you intend to stay in this position?” 

Yes, and no.  He intended, at the least, to stay long enough to make a thorough study of Hannibal, to write a paper on him that would probably render him effectively unhireable for the rest of his life.  Long enough, too, to teach Hannibal a good foundation that would serve him well enough to keep him alive.  If he had the chance to help any others while he was here, that’d be an unlooked for bonus.  He’d been hired to deal with problems, with the understanding that their chief and at the moment sole problem was Hannibal Lecter.  For the forseeable future, he was almost entirely Will’s responsibility. 

Unwilling to lie to him, Will gave himself a moment as he gathered the leash to consider.  The chain wrapped around his hand five times before he’d turned the words over enough.  “If I leave, it won’t be by choice, and it won’t be without making sure you’ll have someone here to look out for you.  We’ll see how it goes.  Okay?”

“That sounds more than fair.”  There was politeness there, and distance.  Propriety.  Less of Hannibal, oddly, than there had been in his voice when he commented on Mason Verger. 

Wary of losing him, Will pressed.  “Does it?  Because I’m not just asking you to not outright disobey me; I’m asking you to work with me.  I’ll need you to talk to me, sometimes about things you haven’t been asked or might not want to talk about.  I’ll need you to do it anyway.  I _will be_ more than fair and I’ll fight for your best interests, but you have to work with me, or I can’t do any of that.” 

Holding eye contact with an alpha was difficult, even for a human.  Near impossible for an omega Will had been told when he was in school, but he’d seen omegas do it.  If they could, he’d reasoned, so could he.  Hannibal’s rich eyes were, at least, beautiful to look it, though there was something in them that Will felt all the way to the back of his neck, the base of his spine.  Heat, like a brushfire in the dark. 

Hannibal blinked, the little surprised sound that barely left his throat immensely gratifying.  Clearly, he’d expected Will to look away.  Most probably did. 

“I’ll do what I can.  We’ll see how it goes.” 

The thrill of having his own words thrown back at him was new, the sharpness of his wit beyond what Will had experienced with Anthony or even Beverly, though he’d been absolutely sure that she was holding back on him, always careful, always wary.  After the life she’d led, he couldn’t fault her for that. 

Will breathed deep, locked and patted the buckle on the front of Hannibal’s harness.  No time for reminiscing now, only for focus.  He could do nothing for Anthony and Beverly he hadn’t already done, nothing but forward motion.  “That’s all I can ask,” he said, already in his mind moving on.  With a touch to Hannibal’s shoulder, he slipped behind him to clip the leash to the ring between his shoulder blades.  “I’m going to take you outside and then we’ll go to the breeding shed.  It’s going to be a long afternoon.  We’ll be starting work on teaching your body to respond to pressure points for the next couple of weeks so you can expect a lot of teasing and a lot of collection, but I’ll pace you.” 

“I’ve not been collected for over two weeks.  After daily sessions for so long the pressure has been—“  Hannibal shifted, his palm smoothing down along his own hip.  Like he was settling himself, gathering composure.  Though Will waited, patient and without a tug on the leash, Hannibal didn’t seem to have the words to finish.  Instead, he shook his head.  “I prefer a moderate schedule.” 

“We’ll get you back to moderate.”  In a few weeks, a couple of months at most.  He had no doubts whatsoever that Hannibal would be a fast learner, if he wanted to be.  “Today’s going to be rough, though.  I won’t dance around that.”

“Are you always so forthcoming?”

Will stepped forward, tugging gently at the leash to encourage Hannibal to fall into step alongside him.  “Most trainers assume their charges will balk if they’re told they’ve got something unpleasant ahead of them.”

“And you don’t.”  There was no question, flat and solid.  Hannibal cast a glance over, the flecks of fire in his eyes harder to see in the relative dim of the access hallway they emerged into.  “There was an entire chapter in your last book on it.  Barney and I discussed your comparison to how a man would react if you restrained him and cut his arm off without a word versus his reaction if you told that man he had gangrene.  An extreme, inaccurate analogy, but effective.” 

He’d found he had to go to extremes, often, to be heard.  “And yet, you’re still surprised I told you.” 

“I doubt it shocks you that I’m not used to honesty.” 

“And look how well you’re responding to it.  Not an inch of balk out of you.”

He’d made Hannibal smile a few times now, at their first meeting and at this one, but that was the closest he’d come so far to making him laugh.  He could feel it in the air between them, hear it in the shift in Hannibal’s breath, see the softer lines of his smile.  It warmed Will’s chest all the way down the hall. 

\-----

As he’d requested, the omega was already in place when he brought Hannibal into the shed.  If he _did_ have trouble restraining him, he didn’t want it to be while a receptive but potentially terrified and certainly vulnerable omega was being brought in. 

They were a male, a thin little thing.  Will could only hope they’d done as he requested and brought someone who’d been bred several times already.  As threatening of a presence as he was sure Hannibal could be, he didn’t want the poor thing frightened—or too desperate.  An omega used to the flow of life in a breeding facility would have been used to tease studs many times over the course of their life.  They’d be frustrated, undoubtedly, but even in the haze of heat they’d have enough experience behind them to know the frustration wouldn’t last. 

From the minute they walked in, Hannibal’s nostrils flared, though Will couldn’t help but notice his eyes went first to the two keepers on either side of the opposite door rather than to the omega.  Neither was Barney, and both had tasers and clubs at their belts.  Will shook off his frown before it took root, refocused on Hannibal with an encouraging rub of his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about them; just focus.  They’re irrelevant.”

“Here for your safety?”  Already, Hannibal’s voice was huskier, thicker, just at the scent.  A quick glance showed Will that even so, he hadn’t started to drop yet. 

Will reached higher, kneading at the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  “Probably, but it’s totally unnecessary.  I’m not afraid of you, and we don’t need them.  Pretend they aren’t here.” 

Hannibal’s huff carried more irritation than amusement.  “Will they do the same?”

“Hannibal,”  Will’s voice rose a little stronger, steel firm as his thumb massaged near the base of his charge’s skull.  “ _Focus_ , please.”  Without a doubt, he was remembering the last time he’d been here, the incident that had led to Will being hired.  The floor was white, now, but if Will believed Chilton’s talk the blood had taken days to scrub out.      

Will’s hand slipped lower, curling around the back of Hannibal’s harness and using it and the pressure of his knuckles to urge him gently forward, toward the glass box that held the little omega.  “Take deep breaths.  Think about what you smell.” 

Given the circumstances, he’d be able to smell quite a bit—even Will could veritably taste the omega on his tongue.  This one smelled like honey and…something else, reminiscent of a hot house orchid.  Even from the distance they approached from, Will could already see that his thighs ran wet with slick.  The glass box with its thin slits for air meant there would be no getting close enough to taste anything today, but the omega had plenty of air and he could be both scented and heard, which was plenty to get any alpha thoroughly riled. 

Will kept his grip and led Hannibal closer, beginning a slow stroke of Hannibal’s left flank as he did.  Once he grew to associate being petted there with sexual arousal, they wouldn’t need this process anymore.  He could collect from Hannibal anywhere, quickly, and leave them both free to move on to other pursuits. 

When they stood about five paces away, the omega whined and bucked against the straps that held him in a receptive breeding position, fighting futilely to spread his thighs wider, to drop his chest closer to the floor.  A spurt of slick dribbled from his hole, and Will knew before he even looked that the boy had to be responding to the scent of Hannibal’s arousal. 

The proof of it was beginning to drop between his thighs, his cock thickening and growing, maybe halfway to full in the matter of a moment.  Will’s pang of sympathy was sharp and sudden, a jolt in his gut he swallowed against.  After years of being taught that his life revolved around this, daily, to have kept Hannibal without release for two weeks…

It was more impressive, really, that he hadn’t responded like this when Will touched him yesterday, that he hadn’t responded like this _here_ the moment they walked in the door.  Will stroked him with broad, long motions, urged him forward a little closer.  “That’s good, Hannibal.  That’s very good.  Why don’t you get a little closer?  It’s alright.” 

Hannibal, so readily talkative at every interaction so far that Will had had with him, didn’t say a word.  He did, however, take the space Will gave him by letting go of his harness to step forward and drop to his knees by the box, nuzzling at an air slit with impressive restraint.  Will had seen alphas bite the glass, try impossibly to thrust their dick against it. 

Hannibal didn’t even try to get his tongue through, just _breathed_ , his eyes blown black with want.  Carefully, Will crouched next to him to continue his petting, unsurprised when at first he felt Hannibal tense a touch beneath his palm.  With his history of violence, he probably hadn’t often been touched when he was like this.  In his rut, they probably restrained him to the point of absurdity. 

Will clicked wordlessly to him under his breath, stilled his hand but kept it pressed firm until he could feel even a fraction of tension release.  He squeezed lightly in reward before his hand moved again, Hannibal outwardly unresponsive to the low _that’s it_ he murmured along with it. 

The omega keened, the little cock that hung stiff between his legs suddenly swaying as he began to piss.  Years ago, urination in a breeding setting had been considered nothing more than wildness, fear, or poor housetraining, but a study of parasapients in zoos that allowed for traditional ‘wild’ family groups to form had made the argument for it as a sexual behavior in itself, appeasement and enticement both.  The concept wasn’t unheard of, or even particularly difficult to grasp.  Some humans practiced a form of the behavior after all, and theirs didn’t smell half as sweet as what the omega had just released, strange and almost floral with only a hint of inherent acidity. 

Hannibal’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward once entirely out of reflex.  Will studied the bob of his cock, the enthusiastic curve of it, the moisture beginning to bead above his foreskin.  He observed, and maintained touch, his ears as honed to the variations in Hannibal’s breath as the rest of him was to everything he could feel spilling into the air between them. 

Desperate want, vague irritation.  Fascination.  A curious lack of the typical possessive desire to claim. 

When Hannibal’s hips had begun to reliably jerk of their own accord and the base of his cock was visibly thickening, Will rose to his feet.  From across the room, Will could feel himself being watched.  This, this was where he’d prove if he was the trainer Dr. Chilton had hired, if he was worth the money.  Clearly, the keepers didn’t think so—from the corner of his eye he could see that at least one of them had their hand on their taser.  To be fair, they’d seen the damage Hannibal could do.  Will had no intention of sharing that knowledge—not from their perspective, at least. 

His first tug on the least was wordless, gentle pressure.  Hannibal nosed at the box, scenting, seemingly oblivious.  A little more pressure gained a snarl, and the movement of the keeper to the right that Will stopped cold with an outraised hand. 

“Mr. Graham—“

“I’ve got him.  Stand down.”  The man had barely moved two steps, and already he’d felt the change in Hannibal.  He was unearthly still, the snarl gone, his hands no longer gripping at the sides of the box but perched there like butterflies.  Expectant.  Waiting. 

In a heartbeat, he could launch himself over the top of it and rip the taser from the man’s hand before he could fire.  Will could feel him thinking it, his mind suddenly thick with the heavy weight of planning.  One move, over the top of the box.  Another to hit the keeper square in the chest.  Risk firing the taser?  No, he’d never done it.  Too risky.  Teeth, instead, teeth and—

Will grounded himself by shaking his head, raking his tongue quick against his own teeth.  Not sharp, dull.  Tilting toward the vegetarian end of omnivore rather than the carnivore.  The outrage, he let himself keep, though he swaddled it tight before he dropped down behind Hannibal close against his back.  With one hand he took a firm grip on the harness to keep himself at Hannibal’s back should he try to turn, the other rising quick to bury itself in that soft, silky hair.  His hold wasn’t rough there, but enough to tear Hannibal’s gaze from the keeper, enough to put his mouth alongside Hannibal’s ear.

“ _Hannibal_.  Enough.  Walk with me, and we’ll come back.” 

Hannibal stiffened, his back pressed against Will’s chest so firm Will was sure Hannibal could feel the beating of his heart.  Steady, unafraid.  The moment stretched, both their breath held, and then Hannibal exhaled, his head dipping forward.  Will’s chin brushed his shoulder, rested there long enough to feel muscle bunch and move as he nodded. 

“My apologies, Mr. Graham.  It’s been some time.”

“Unaccepted.”  The truth of his gentle teasing was in the slow withdraw of his chin from Hannibal’s shoulder, the fond scratch at Hannibal’s scalp he gave as he stood.  “I told you to call me Will.” 

Hannibal rose with him with feline grace.  If the angry red jut of his cock pained him, he didn’t show it, though Will could see him breathing carefully through his mouth, his eyes shark black.  It would have been almost worth it to look away from him on the way out to see the look on the keepers faces as they watched him lead Hannibal out as passive as a lamb. 

Almost, but not quite. 


	3. Chapter 3

Outside, the light seemed oddly blinding for a moment, a sharp adjustment between fluorescents and sunlight.  They both blinked against it, and Hannibal turned his head, his exhale sharp.  He was strung tight, his cock heavy.  The sun alone probably felt almost too hot against his skin, and it was only spring. 

Will pressed his palm to Hannibal’s spine, followed through with the pressure by giving Hannibal a little more lead.  “Come on.  Let’s walk that off.” 

Hannibal’s nod was answer enough, under the circumstances.  It was enough, really, that he allowed himself to be led onto the dirt track that made a meandering circuit around the large exercise yard.  His gait was as smooth and easy as it had been a moment ago, but between the lines the longer he moved Will could see that his need _did_ pain him—his breath caught, here and there, particularly when his cock bobbed up against his stomach.  His hands, however, hadn’t so much as twitched toward his groin.  Either his self-control was ironclad, or he’d had excellent training. 

Excellent, or severe.  Will didn’t want to let his thoughts linger just now on where on that list he’d place his money. 

“That didn’t go so badly.”  Will’s eyes cut to Hannibal’s face to see how he’d take it, apprising. 

“That depends on what’s considered _badly_.  I can think of more than a few trainers I’ve met who would not have hesitated to make an example of such a slip.  Particularly after my latest…infraction.”  His face was blank, as passive as it had been when he’d made his apology.  It was presented, on the face, as an observation, but Will could feel the machinations below it settle like an ache in the back of his teeth.  The careful restraint, even now, that kept him from reaching for his cock, that had kept him from biting or even lapping the glass.

Restraint far beyond what it would take to respond when summoned. 

The thrill of awe bubbled like champagne up from his throat, and Will swallowed, willed his fingers to close firmly about the leash before it slipped from his loosened grip.  “Your last _infraction_ didn’t happen when I was with you, so it’s got no more bearing on my decisions than Dr. Chilton’s recommendations do.  But for your own sake,”  Will flicked the leash, just enough for the chain to brush lightly at Hannibal’s bicep, enough to be sure he had his attention.  “I’d hold off on testing me when we aren’t alone.  I’ve been put in control of you, but I can’t promise your safety against every trigger happy tech and keeper in this place.” 

He hadn’t exactly expected too much shock from Hannibal at being caught out, given that he’d obviously been clever enough to plan it and pull it off, but there was no quantifiable initial reaction at all.  Only silence, as soft as the pad of Hannibal’s feet against the warm red clay.  It wasn’t an uncomfortable one. 

Along the edges of the path, buttercups and clover bloomed between patches of broadleaf plantain, scraggly sprouts of wild onion, and splashes of wild strawberry.  It was reminiscent of the sort of garden a child would cultivate along a playground, a collage of weeds. 

Hannibal breathed deep, and tilted his face toward the sun.  “You are, by your own admission, testing me,” he said, speaking as if he weren’t speaking to Will at all.  To the errant clouds, perhaps, or to the sunlight itself.  “Did you think I wouldn’t test you?  You tell me your decisions are made by experience; how else can you expect me to make mine?  I know a little about the face you present to the world in your books and it has promise, but experience has taught me more than enough to know much can hide behind a façade.  You could be all that you appear—“  Hannibal’s glance cast across him didn’t linger, but Will felt it.  “—or you could be more, or less.  I have myself to determine that with; all else is situational.  I doubt you showed the face to Chilton you show to me.”

Chastened, Will tipped his head in concession.  Despite all his work, all he knew and felt, there were moments Will could feel himself confronted with his own prejudice, like a rock inside him overturned to reveal black, gooey earth and crawling things.  It wasn’t pleasant, and part of him rebelled with the urge to turn the rock back over, but it was necessary.  If he was going to commit to the path of proving to himself and a handful of willing ears that that parasapients were a separate _race_ rather than an unevolved base creature with human passing similarity, he’d have to first admit that he had a great deal left to unlearn. 

“We find ourselves in the same position, then,” Will murmured.  “Testing our hypotheses about each other.  Hoping to be proved wrong, or right.” 

“And which are you hoping for?  Do you look for me to surprise you?” 

“I think you’d surprise anyone.”  It wasn’t an answer, but he wasn’t sure he was ready, yet, to divulge his own questions, or the reasons he’d formed them.  As Hannibal had said himself, they were still learning about each other.  Still circling, like alpha coyotes over a kill neither had made and both wanted. 

The breeding shed was coming up again on the right, but Will maintained pace to pass it for another circuit.  Between his legs, Hannibal’s cock had shrunk only to a half hard wilt; for the best results, he’d need to start each time from nothing. 

Will cleared his throat, let chain clink as he released the leash all the way down to grab only the loop handle, giving Hannibal as much free line as he could.  “You’re very well spoken.  Extremely.  More than most of the parasapients I’ve met with institutional backgrounds.” 

“A benefit of my life not being entirely institutional.”  Hannibal stretched as he walked, one long arm drawn back behind him and held by the wrist like a gymnast warming up before a routine.  “After I killed Paul Momund I was deemed unfit for combat situations—which was hilarious to me at the time because I’d been fairly sure ripping a man’s throat out with my teeth would narrow my tracking prospects and push me into strictly combat.  I’d considered that loss a regrettable side effect.  I hadn’t thought they’d take me from the service entirely.” 

“You killed your handler, Hannibal.  I don’t think there’s anywhere that wouldn’t be an immediate disqualification.” 

Hannibal’s hum was mild, considering.  As if someone had only just told him food would spoil if left out for too long, and he was weighing the truth and risk against past times he’d tried it.  “In any case, I was transferred.  They didn’t know what to do with me at first so I was sent to the veterinary teaching hospital for the students to practice on.  It was good for them, and good for me.  Most of them were very kind, and very eager to take care of their charges.  They delighted in teaching me.”  

The six year stint at the National Veterinary School of Toulouse had been no more than a blip in Hannibal’s file, but this revelation shed light on it that would make it more than worth digging into.  In general, there were more good vets than bad ones, and from what Will had seen, Hannibal’s observation wasn’t wrong.  They tended to love their charges.  With a little detective work, he could get his hands on the names of students who’d worked with Hannibal during his time there.  Surely, at least a few of them would remember him.  If he couldn’t imagine forgetting Hannibal after two days, it’d have to be near impossible to forget him after caring for him and working with him for three or more years. 

A tug on the leash alerted Will to Hannibal veering off to walk in the cool softness of the weedy grass.  Will let him, meandering closer so there’d be no strain on the line.  “You were an excellent student, I’m sure.  Eager to learn, and engaging once you had.”

“They thought so.  Revana taught me to memorize the beginning of _The Canterbury Tales_ , as she’d had to do in secondary school.  I would repeat it at unexpected moments to make her laugh if she was doing poorly.”  He smiled at a reflected memory only he could see, the lightness of it reaching all the way to his eyes as he reached down to pluck a miniature strawberry.   

Will tried to go there with him without closing his eyes, tried to call to mind a classroom in Toulouse, a young girl with too much work on her shoulders and a fondness for Hannibal that drew her to study in the rooms where he was kept.  Hannibal, reciting _The Canterbury Tales_ while another student drew blood from his femoral artery. 

It made Will smile too, though the picture was too fuzzy for him to see it clear.  Too many unknowns, but now he had at least one name.  Revana. 

Hannibal bounced the strawberry in his hand, idly amused, though his eyes were tracking the sky rather than the motion. 

“What else did they teach you?” 

“Mostly, as much English and French as they could.  I’m fluent in both.  And my native Lithuanian, of course, though I’m afraid my vocabulary there is a bit stunted and childish.  None of the students knew enough to help me.”  He said this easily, as if it were nothing to achieve something many humans never did, as if it were expected.  “Bellamy was very fond of geometry.  He taught me a little, and a touch of physics.  One of the instructors noticed and scolded him for stressing me with concepts I couldn’t understand.  He didn’t bring me any more problems to work, after that.” 

Will could well imagine the boy’s shame, and his despair.  He’d tried to do a good thing, had started, but keeping it up wasn’t worth the cost of his degree, of his own good standing.  Will could sympathize there, too.  He swallowed against the taste of ash in his mouth. 

“Well, if you’d like to try again I’ll get you books on both.  I can’t promise much help with them, though.  Math was never my strong suit.” 

At the end of the leash, Hannibal was still looking to the sky.  His cock was soft. 

Somewhat reluctantly, Will wound a coil of the leash around his hand.  “Come on, Hannibal.  Time to go back in.” 

\-----

After teasing Hannibal for the fifth time, Will determined he’d had enough for today.  He’d responded when Will pulled him away, but outside he’d been tellingly uninterested in conversation, and not even interested in walking at first.  Instead, he’d led Will to a patch of ground in the shade, and once there gone to his hands and knees.  His breath was harsh and heavy, a fine shiver rippling across his shoulders and down his spine.  His cock leaked freely, and his balls looked swollen, felt hot when Will reached beneath him to get a feel for their tension beneath his palm. 

Hannibal’s back had arched like he wanted to scrunch in on himself, wanted to thrust, wanted conflictingly to bare himself and spread his legs as he’d been taught.  The disparity looked uncomfortable, and Will had seen his fingers dig in a little into the dirt. 

With time, and patient, gentle massage to the nape of Hannibal’s neck, he’d been able to help him unwind enough to realize being in a position to thrust (as his hips were still doing, very faint little jerks) wasn’t helping him calm down.  Gradually, he sank to the ground and lay flat on his back, breathing with his eyes closed, letting the slightly too cool air of Georgia April in the shade chill him and dissolve his arousal. 

The detached uncertainty in his eyes when he’d opened them had burrowed beneath Will’s skin, as sharp a cut as the deliberate steadiness of his voice when he’d licked his lips and said _Time to go in?_

There was fragility there, a burgeoning trust that was as thin as floss.  Will wasn’t about to snap it. 

Instead, he’d shaken his head, petted Hannibal’s hair back away from his eyes, and given him another moment to settle himself before he brought him here, to one of the small collection rooms behind the shed he’d explored when he first toured the facility.  They were regularly scrubbed clean, so there’d be no scent of omega here to set him off, and no trace of rival alpha to make him uneasy, either.  Not that this one was likely to feel uneasy; he was healthy and strong and incredibly virile, aging but still easily in his prime.  He’d have probably been able to drop if the room stank of every one of his neighbors. 

Will clipped Hannibal’s leash onto a hitching post by the table, spinning the lock into place.  He gestured at the sheet-covered cushion with his chin.  “Climb on up, please.  We’re going to do it this time on your hands and knees.” 

Obediently, Hannibal arranged himself on the collection table, his cock immediately beginning to lengthen.  Will hadn’t wanted that to happen until he touched him, to reinforce the training they’d begun today, but it wasn’t to be helped.  As many years as he’d had these procedures performed, it was only natural for his body to respond with marked interest at the prospect of imminent release, particularly after he’d been teased to such a level of readiness. 

At the counter, Will readied a basin of soapy water, and pulled on thin, Soft Touch gloves.  After searching two drawers by the sink he found the sponges, and opened a sterile one to dunk into the water.  With all his first supplies prepared, he turned to find Hannibal with his head bowed in a graceful arc, sweeping up with the arch of his shoulders, down with the dip in his spine.  He could have been a sculpture like this, perfection of muscle and bone, the surface dotted with silvery scars Will had only just begun to map. 

His cock was near fully erect now, but Will didn’t have it in him to scold him.  Instead, he briefly pressed his bare arm against Hannibal’s left flank, a reminder and encouragement.  “That’s good.  That’s very good.  I’m going to clean you now, and then we’ll start the collection, okay?” 

Hannibal nodded, the muscles in his neck tight.  No sound came from him as Will reached in to grasp behind the head of his cock with one gloved hand, but he could feel in the brush of his thigh against Will’s side the effort it took him to be still.  The muscle there was bunched, eager.  Ready to breed, as his body had wanted to do all afternoon. 

Will gently peeled back Hannibal’s foreskin, exposing the brilliantly red head of his cock.  It swelled so full under light scrubbing that Will did give him a nudge toward caution, the slight sound that bubbled out of him before he spoke somewhere between command and disapproval.  “Not yet, Hannibal.” 

“May I come as soon as you place the sleeve?”  There, Will could hear at least half of the strain he was struggling not to show, in the thickening of his accent.  Somehow, it made him sound younger. 

Will bought himself a moment before answering by sliding Hannibal’s foreskin forward and scrubbing down his cock, around his balls.  They twitched against his fingers, like overworked muscle.  “I’m not going to use the sleeve today; I need to take a look at you, and get used to being able to do this for you myself.  So you could argue—“  Will dropped the sponge back into the basin, and moved it to the side.  He stripped off his gloves and tossed them in with it.  “—that I didn’t _fully_ disclose all my plans, but I think since this is a detail and I said today would be difficult, you can forgive me.” 

In the quiet of the room, in the space that came after he opened the drawer beneath the table, Will could hear Hannibal swallow.  “That’s not a difficulty.  I don’t mind hands, if the person using them knows what they’re doing.”  Cloaked in the rough tone of such thick arousal, Will found that observation funnier than he probably would have if Hannibal had said it before they’d started, back in the placid atmosphere of the room he inhabited with such a light footprint. 

His chuckle was soft, without condescension.  “I know what to do, I promise.  I’m not going to ignore your knot.”  It had seemed funnier too, perhaps, because he’d known exactly the type of handlers Hannibal was talking about.  He’d seen them at work himself, jerking an alpha’s cock like they’d jerk their own or their lover’s, completely ignoring that a great deal of the pleasure in penetrative orgasm for an alpha was in the pressure on their knot.  An alpha that didn’t at least mostly enjoy collection wasn’t likely to be too cooperative with the parts that weren’t as appealing. 

From the drawer, Will pulled out a packet of lube, which he wrapped in a sanitary wipe and slipped inside his shirt and underneath his arm.  He should have started to warm it sooner, really, but at least this way it wouldn’t be going onto Hannibal’s skin starkly cold.  From the drawer he removed a collection sleeve insert, sealed and sterile like the imitation slick.  Rather than insert it into the end of the sleeve, he’d have to hold it to the tip of Hannibal’s cock himself, but that wouldn’t be difficult.  At this point in his life, he could have done this entire procedure blindfolded, but he wouldn’t have wanted to.  There was too much to learn, particularly now, here.  In a few minutes, he’d have other pieces of Hannibal to fit into his puzzle.  Round edges, jagged points. 

Hannibal’s cock was fully extended now, heavy and curving.  From the rise of fall of his stomach, Will could see that the effort to keep his breath steady was substantial.  Will removed the packet from his shirt, shaking his head.  “I’m sorry; this slick won’t be that warm.  I don’t want you to wait anymore.”

“The effort is appreciated.”  Hannibal rolled his shoulders, letting a heavy, impatient breath.  “And unexpected.”

“Sounds like I have a low bar to step over.”  Will snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, and opened the packet.  Unsurprisingly, Hannibal’s cock twitched at the snap of the gloves.  Conditioning and experience were impressive in their ability to sink into the mind, permeating the body.  Will had seen an omega, once, who gushed slick at the sight of a bowling pin, after his former owner had used the head of one for years as a way to provide enough stimulation to partially muffle his cries during his heats. 

Will opened the package, wet the soft latex rim of the collection receptacle with lube and slipped it over the head of Hannibal’s cock, effectively nudging his foreskin back to bare it as he did.  Hannibal’s breath ratcheted up a little faster.  Will stroked his flank with the inside of his wrist, letting him feel skin on skin.  The rest of the lube went into his other hand, and down the length of Hannibal’s impressive cock.  Next time, he’d get two packets.  For now, this would be enough. 

“Okay, Hannibal,” he said, his fingers ready to close around his girth.  “When I touch you, you can come as soon as you like.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Graham.” 

Will didn’t even bother to correct him, not with Hannibal so distracted.  Instead, he grasped his cock with a firm hand, and began to jerk him in quick short motions like those of a desperate omega fucking back onto his cock. 

Hannibal hunched his back and thrust into his grip in earnest, broken breathes giving way quickly to aborted grunts.  Hannibal’s head hung low, eyes closed like he was somewhere else.  Lost in a fantasy, perhaps, the omega’s body he’d been taunted with all day underneath him and giving, giving.

The base of his cock started to swell gradually, but Will was careful not to focus his attention on it until it had properly begun to thicken.  Then, he stroked faster, a little rough, before he squeezed down hard and sudden around the area where Hannibal’s knot was about to be. 

Hannibal cried out then, a sharp, high sound that was nothing like pain, his hips spasming as his orgasm began.  Hannibal hadn’t expected _that_ of him, the effort of mimicking an omega’s orgasm down to the sudden clench intended to lock him in place.  His surprise had been clear, and thoroughly satisfying, as satisfying as it was to feel Hannibal’s knot inflate to full size against his palm.  It was too big at final size for his hand to meet around, but he worked it with practiced fingers, shifting his grip to milk steadily at him and keep his orgasm going. 

A glance at the collection receptacle told him it was working—there was quite a good sample already, and more was still coming out of him, sticky streams seeping down the sides of the vial.  Will shifted his grip a little further back, squeezing on the surface of his knot closest to his body.  Right where the tightest muscle would be, keeping him tied to his mate and plugging them up while his seed worked its way deeper inside. 

The muscles in Hannibal’s abdomen jumped, and his breath shuddered out as his orgasm was spurred to another peak, his cock spurting so forcefully Will heard the splash of semen shooting into the already collected pool.  Will’s thumb rubbed at the base of Hannibal’s cock, just above where his balls had drawn tight up against his body. 

“That’s a good boy,”  Will whispered, automatic and easy.  He was so used to the phrase after years of charges who welcomed it, but it was only after it slipped out that he wondered if Hannibal might not.  If it offended him, he showed no sign.  Instead, his body shifted ever so slightly toward him, a little more of his weight resting against Will’s arm.  Not offended seemed a safe estimation.  “That’s good, Hannibal.  You had a lot in you.  I know you can give me a little more.” 

With another swell of pressure on his knot, he did, though it was less of a spurt this time and more of a surge in the trickle that had still been dripping into the vial, matched by slower thrust and the shift of Hannibal’s body down to rest on his forearms.  Ever so slightly, his biceps were trembling. 

Enough, then.  An omega might try to coax a little more out of him, but Will knew he’d be using the probe to get the last bit.  He was already tired; Will didn’t want to exhaust him before his last ordeal of the day.  Instead, he shifted his grip to be a little lighter.  Firm, still, and encompassing as much of Hannibal’s knot as he could, but he was no longer milking at him, just holding.  Keeping him warm. 

He used the opportunity, too, to get a good look at Hannibal’s knot before he began to deflate.  He needed to know what it looked like healthy, in case he ever had trouble there.  It was more thickly veined than some Will had seen, but the veins weren’t obtrusive.  They ran in almost artful stretch across the heavy expanse of him, almost all vanishing when they joined his sparsely veined cock.  His knot was thick in Will’s hand, hot like it should be against his palm, even through the glove.  In all respects, he seemed thoroughly healthy. 

Healthy, and softening.  The semen going into the vessel now only ran in thin rivulets.  Will held him and murmured encouragement until he was done, his cock gone soft, his body leaning into Will hard enough that Will’s arm felt the strain.  He’d have taken more weight than that if it meant Hannibal was lax and purring, but for the moment on this first attempt, he’d take silent and leaning.  He’d take all the tidbits of trust he could get. 

He hooked his arm around Hannibal’s waist to show his willingness to continue supporting a little of his weight while he removed the receptacle, set it aside and focused on guiding Hannibal to lie down on his side before he even stripped off his gloves.  When he came around the table to place the collection on the counter to prep for storage, he found Hannibal’s eyes open, clear and steady and looking at him. 

There was something unreadable there that made Will feel strangely like he was being pulled out of his skin and into somewhere else entirely.  A room of their own making, spun around them like web, like cloth.  If he’d had to put words to it, the first his mind supplied were _dangerous fondness_. 

Dangerous for which of them, he wasn’t sure.  He could feel the two of them overlapping, blurring.  He hadn’t done this poorly shielding himself against bleed through in years.  In his pants, he could even feel his cock trying to stir. 

Will broke the moment by dropping into a crouch, pulling open the lowest drawer beneath the table.  When he’d familiarized himself with these labs, he’d wanted to make sure there were blankets.  Sweaty parasapients quickly became _cold_ parasapients, and these labs weren’t warm to begin with.  Will pulled the top one free, a soft and faded blue and green plaid.  He draped it carefully over his charge, tucking it in close to his body, his hand lingering near Hannibal’s cheek when he pulled it up high over his neck. 

Hannibal turned his head to nuzzle delicately against his palm, and Will felt something hot in his chest snap, seeping everywhere.  He swallowed, lest it rise in his throat.  “Will you be okay to rest here while I get things ready?  We still have to do the probe, but you can take a nap first if you want.  I know you’re tired.” 

Hannibal’s breath tickled his palm, and the brush of his tongue against the side of his hand was so slight, so ghost quick Will wasn’t even sure he felt it.  “Yes, Will.  I’ll sleep.  Thank you.” 

Rattled, and unsure what basic kindness he’d just been thanked for, Will withdrew his hand and slipped it into his pocket. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, you guys are all incredibly amazing. Thank you for taking this handbasket to hell ride with me, XD
> 
> Second, this chapter includes content that requires the the 'past/referenced non-con' warning, so be careful if that's something you'd rather not read. If this is the case for anybody who still wants to keep reading the fic, just message me on tumblr and I'll summarize this chapter for you. 
> 
> Third, this chapter was supposed to be two scenes. Instead it's one because they wouldn't freaking shut up. 
> 
> Fourth, and final note, because of life things this fic will update 1-2 chapters every other week...so no updates next week, but it'll be back the week after with more filth and hannigram bonding content XD

For a little over an hour, Hannibal napped on the table.  He’d drifted off much sooner than Will had expected, which in itself spoke volumes about the progress he was already making.  Hannibal was thoroughly tired, of course, but all the same a parasapient that would sleep in the same room as newcomer was well on their way to accepting them.  As with everything else, though, he couldn’t discount Hannibal’s history—sleeping in a shelter that inherently exuded danger in the form of countless unknown humans and parasapients had likely worn down his instincts a bit. 

Barney had mentioned in his file that several times she’d tried not to wake him, only to have him speak coherently to her out of a dead silence, as if he’d been awake for some time and monitoring, waiting.  That he was well versed in the art of not drawing attention to himself was likely another legacy of his youth.  To stand out would be to be singled out.  In an environment with no family group and no safety, the consequences could be dire. 

It was far too much to put on the shoulders of a child, and Will had put it out of his mind before the nausea overwhelmed him.  He busied himself instead with recording the amount of semen he’d gathered.  He’d come up just shy of 115 mL, a fairly substantial collection but less than Will had expected since Hannibal had been rested so long.  He could have stood to milk him a little more, it seemed.  Beginning with any new parasapient was always a learning process, though, and he’d adapt his techniques to suit Hannibal.  No doubt, it’d be plenty enough to placate Chilton.  After the way he’d ranted about the money he’d lost due to Hannibal’s instability , it had crossed Will’s mind and stuck there that it might not be the incidents themselves that troubled Chilton half as much as his prize stud being out of commission. 

With the sample labeled and refrigerated, Will set about gathering the equipment he’d need for Hannibal’s final procedure of the day.  The probe kit was kept on a handcart, which Will picked up and moved in its entirety.  If Hannibal was a light sleeper, there was near zero chance the errant squeak of a wheel wouldn’t wake him up.  Once in place, Will removed the sheet cover, flipped open the lid of the carrying case, and took a look at Chilton’s equipment. 

It wasn’t as new as the set they’d had at the FBI academy kennel, that was clear.  _Pulsar_ had been bought out by _ElectroSafe_ about five years ago, and Will hadn’t seen or used their products since.  Still, it’d be serviceable, though a glance at the dial told him it could reach levels long deemed unnecessary.  Ten years old, perhaps.  The probe looked clean and well maintained, but Will took it to the sink and washed it quietly anyway, glancing back over his shoulder as he did. 

Hannibal slept, the blanket rising and falling gently with his breath.  He hadn’t moved an inch. 

Back at the cart, Will checked for slick, towels, an outlet for the cord, and the restraints fastened around the table.  As tired as Hannibal was, it’d be best to use the stirrups, rather than that straps that would keep him from kicking out on his hands and knees.  They’d keep him still enough, but they wouldn’t catch him if he slumped, and Will didn’t want him to have a bad experience today.  The whole thing was difficult enough as it was, and he still had his suspicions about Hannibal’s past experience with this procedure kicking around in his head.

No bad experiences worth _mentioning_ , he’d said.  If his apparent utter lack of ever mentioning his past abuse without being prodded was anything to go by, he might only have found it worth mentioning if one of his past facilities had removed a limb.  The picture of him as a pup flashed in Will’s mind again, grainy pus and raw skin, and Will bent to wrap the stirrups with hand towels so they wouldn’t be cold against Hannibal’s legs. 

The first time he’d watched a probe collection, he hadn’t eaten for two days.  The instructor’s voice had been utterly calm, matter of fact as he patted the alpha he’d just strapped down on the rump. 

_Now, she’s only done this once before so when I provide the stimulation she may vocalize, but keep in mind that’s not an indication of pain.  It’s a very intense sensation, but it’s closer to an orgasm dialed up to 1,000 than it is to any kind of hurt.  If they’re frightened by it, it’s because they weren’t trained properly or they’re not used to it yet.  Just give it time, be patient, and they’ll come around._

Will had felt her fear crawling in his throat, all legs and ridges, sharp as glass.  When she screamed, the boy behind him at laughed. 

_Must be one hell of a way to get your rocks off.  I’d give that thing a shot if I thought it’d fit._

Will’s skin had felt too tight, too stretched, and his ears ached with ringing, and wondering.  How could they not hear it?  It wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t just fear anymore; it was _pain_ and it was everywhere and the students were milling forward to look at the equipment and ruffle her hair and pat her on the shoulders like they would if she’d just bred an omega. 

He’d thought, then, that he’d never use one of the damn things, but he’d learned a lot since.  There _were_ alphas out there who found a great deal of pleasure in it, at certain levels, and a larger number than that who didn’t seem to mind it.  A greater number still didn’t like it but took it like a shot, even _asked_ for it.  Those had baffled him, as a student, but he’d figured it out pretty quick.  Some found it oddly less invasive, some liked that it was over quick.  Others had been at facilities that didn’t use it, and suffered the consequences. 

In his second year of graduate school, the first alpha he’d treated with a permanently disabled penis after having suffered severe tearing to his knot muscles from overuse confirmed what he’d already begun to decide—there were worse things than the machines.  He’d use them, when he needed to, but never on a young alpha without proper training in place to coax the alpha into accepting its use. 

Among the young alphas brought into the breeding program during his tenure at the FBI academy, none had shown any intense aversion to the probe.  He was proud of that, in a quiet way; as proud as he could be of something that still made his throat itch. 

Will left the machine where it sat, and moved on to opening other drawers and checking their contents.  He was still so new here, still in the process of familiarizing himself with this unfamiliar place.  When it came to taking care of those under his protection, he wanted to be armed with as much knowledge as he could be, know what he had at his disposal.  Dr. Chilton was a grade A asshole—and Will was sure he didn’t yet know all the many ways in which that was true, yet—but it seemed he did at least keep his labs fairly well stocked. 

He was examining a drawer of anal pacifiers for omegas when Hannibal’s breathing changed.  It was subtle, but he caught the stop-start of it, a whisper like an arm moving beneath the blanket.  Will slid the drawer closed. 

“Do you feel better?” 

The rustling became more pronounced, and he turned to find Hannibal rising to sit up, the blanket pooling around his waist.  His fingers curled around it, and he blinked slowly, like a computer coming online.  If Will was right about the quick flash of a furrow between his eyes he thought he saw, he was restarting slower than he preferred. 

“Yes,” Hannibal said, after another flex of his fingers around the fabric.  His voice was a little scratchy with sleep.  Will couldn’t be sure Hannibal would welcome it until he tried, but he followed the urge to go to him and provide a little settling contact.  He approached slowly, and combed through Hannibal’s soft hair with his fingers like he had when he’d started his exam yesterday.  Hannibal tilted toward him, but Will wasn’t sure which of them it grounded more.  Hannibal sighed.  “I’m hungrier than I expected to be.”

Will laughed, his fingers tangling a moment and tugging gently at a lock of hair.  “You’ve been rested for two weeks; of course you’re hungry.  I’ve already had your portions increased for the next week at least.  When we get done here, you’ll have plenty to eat.” 

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance you could specify what form those extra portions come in?” 

“I can look into it, but don’t get your hopes up, okay?”  Will withdrew his hand with a chuckle and a last light rub of his knuckles against Hannibal’s temple.  It pleased him disproportionally that he could see Hannibal’s head turn just a little when he pulled away, chasing his touch.  The pleasure faded at the unbidden musing that his responsiveness likely had less to do with Will’s effectiveness than the fact that he was undoubtedly even more touch starved than most institutionalized parasapients were.  How many would dare to touch him, after the things he’d done? 

For good measure, and to soothe the sudden painful tightness in his throat, Will petted him again. 

As he dragged himself away to head down to the foot of the table, Hannibal removed the blanket fully in preparation, his arms immediately going to gooseflesh with the cold.  Will touched his ankle to draw Hannibal’s eyes to him, his own flicking to the blanket.  “You can lay back and wrap that around your chest and arms; I’m going to do it with the stirrups.  I’ll talk to them, too about it being too cold in here.” 

“If you intend to meddle in so many aspects of operation, Mr. Graham, there’ll be employees here who won’t like you very much.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t give a rat’s ass if they like me; the only relevant opinion I’m out to get is yours.  Lift your legs up.”  Though he could feel Hannibal studying the top of his head, he didn’t look up.  He snapped the stirrups up with one hand, used the other to guide first Hannibal’s right foot and then his left into place.  With his calves settled against the towels, Will reached for the first strap, though he froze in place at the sudden aborted clink and resettling of Hannibal’s chain

By the time Will looked at him, he was perfectly collected, though it was clear from the swaying leash chain he’d started to sit up, stopped himself, and laid back down.  Everything from his jaw down through his shoulders looked tight. 

Will’s hand slipped lower, his thumb rubbing slow along the tendon in Hannibal’s ankle.  “It’s okay, Hannibal.  This’ll be easier than it was with the harness they were using with you, okay?”

Hannibal’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.  “If you have to restrain me further, I’d prefer the other harness.  I—“  Again, he swallowed, as if he battled something climbing in his throat.  A scream, just under his chin.  Will knew the feeling.  “Please, don’t.” 

Will’s thumb slowed, stopped, and started again.  As if a lock in his mind had just clicked open, he found himself seeing the scene Hannibal had caused the last time he’d been in the breeding shed with fresh eyes.  “You don’t want to hurt me,”  Will exhaled, something oddly peaceful about feeling the certainty of his own interpretation settle around his shoulders like a cloak.  “But you will.  You can’t help it, can you?  You’ll take something that could cut you, because some of the control stays with you; you know you could escape it if you _had_ to.  But something like this…it takes too much control and then you _lose_ control.  You don’t like that feeling any more than Erin Waters liked being impaled on an IV stand.” 

Hannibal stared at him, looking for all the world like he’d had a layer of skin pulled off his eyeballs.  Further, like he’d been stripped past naked somehow, head to toe.  There was such incredulous amazement there that he looked like he wasn’t sure if he was horrified or pleased.  The eyes of a cat spilling into a vat of water and those of a dog sighting home over a hill overlaid, warring. 

Will probably should have looked away. 

“I’ve wanted to hurt many of those I’ve hurt.  Desperately,”  Hannibal said it without bravado, without malice.  Something quivered underneath, though; the same uncertainty in his eyes.  He meant it, but it didn’t make Will wrong.  He had, after all, said _many_.  Not all. 

“I believe you.  I’d go so far as to say I have a strong feeling many of them deserved it, or at the very least deserved consequences you knew they wouldn’t receive.”  And there it was, the dog-gaze winning out over instinctive fear, that bubbling of awe and something that wanted to be hope.  Tentative, improbable joy.  “But not all of them.  Not Erin.  Chilton said you liked her; you’d worked with her before.  On that much, I suspect he probably wasn’t wrong.  Barney didn’t mention that most recent incident when she was telling me about you at first, and I can see why.  It doesn’t look good, it doesn’t _fit_ , but I have a feeling Barney’s logic still holds.  Something sparked you to act, and you meant to.  And then she tried to catch you.  Do you even remember what happened after that?” 

 

“Yes.”  Hannibal rose up on his elbows, watching.  The line of tension along his neck hadn’t dissipated an inch.  There was resentment in the set of his teeth, the thin press of his lips. 

Will prodded a little deeper.  “You remember, but I’m not wrong.  You decided, and then you lost the chance to decide until it was over, and everyone in the room but you and the omega they were testing was dead.  Chilton said she’s still terrified.” 

He flinched as faintly as a snake slipping into a lake would disturb the water—a soft change in surface tension, reverting almost immediately to smooth glass.  “That was not—“

“Your intent, yeah,”  Will finished, his exhale at least as heavy as the weight of his hand on Hannibal’s ankle probably felt.  “I don’t think that was remotely what you intended, but it’s a consequence all the same.  Consequences scatter in all directions, Hannibal; we can’t pick and choose which ones we want.”  Will leaned back, finally letting go to cross his arms over his chest as he considered.  Hannibal seemed no more or less uneasy now that he wasn’t being touched, but he did blink.  “I imagine it’s weird for you, regretting a couple of your unintended consequences.  The times you’ve done something you couldn’t prevent, you’re probably used to feeling worse about the lack of control than what you actually did, aren’t you?”  For an alpha who requested diapers rather than piss in a corner and who kept his belongings in such meticulous order, the fact that he craved control of all aspects of himself that he _could_ control was obvious. 

It didn’t surprise him, then, that Hannibal’s silence confirmed his assessment, but he could taste the triumph it brought, the balance he felt down to the tips of his fingers.  He didn’t doubt his own gifts, certainly not when it was their existence than had led him to realize the emotions he could feel coming off of parasapients, though often simplisticly expressed,  weren’t any different than those he felt coming off his own kind.  It was always gratifying, though,  to see them confirmed, to have proof he wasn’t pouring so much of himself into raw conjecture. 

Hannibal’s teeth dented his lip briefly, a quick flash of their razor sharpness before the points of his canines were covered again.  “I don’t believe that would be the case this time.  I would regret killing you with so much unknown.”  He paused with his head tilted, his mouth just a touch open.  Will’s fingers settled warm over his ankle again, and Hannibal’s eyes found Will’s again.  “You’re far too interesting.” 

Will’s huff of laughter should’ve felt out of place, but followed as naturally as the stroke of his hand down Hannibal’s calf, the light pat he gave below his knee.  He wasn’t afraid; he was fascinated.  “Well, Hannibal, that leaves us with a problem to solve.  This has to be done, and I won’t use the harness.  I don’t approve of it.  I don’t think there’s ever an excuse for using blades and clamps to pacify anyone.  I know you’ve worn a straight jacket; how did Barney get you into it?”

“She asked, and I put it on myself.”  He voice was so easy, so placid, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.  Maybe it was. 

“If I ask, will you put these on yourself?”  Will held up the buckle end of a leg strap, his question as much in his hands and eyes as his voice. 

Almost imperceptivity, Hannibal inched further up the table.  “I’d prefer a compromise.  As you’ve already surmised I have no intention of hurting you unless you give me a reason.  If it’s a matter of me being still, I can assure you I will be.” 

“Whether it feels good or hurts, you don’t have to be entirely still.  I’m fine with still enough not to hurt yourself and a lack of open struggling.” 

“Easily granted.  Do we have a compromise?” 

“Quite the debater, aren’t you?”  It could’ve been condescending, said differently or from someone else.  In Will’s tone, there was only appreciation.  “We’ve got a deal.  Go ahead and relax; it’ll be over in a few minutes.” 

As it was, Hannibal relaxed by degrees—first in the arches of his feet as Will gathered the last of his supplies, then in his thighs as Will washed his cock again.  His abs relaxed as Will slipped on gloves and used a band to secure the collection sheath and vial to his mostly soft cock.  The set of his shoulders rounded as Will arranged his cock and the vial to lie against his stomach, and he settled back with a sigh when Will stripped off his gloves and tucked the blanket around Hannibal’s upper body. 

Will stroked at one of the last hard lines on him, the stretch of tendon at his throat.  He watched the motion of his own hand, the slight shift of Hannibal’s skin over muscle.  “You interest me too, you know.  I don’t want this over before it even starts.  I came here with a lot of hope you’d be what I was looking for.” 

“A subject for your next book, perhaps?”

Will shook his head, though it wasn’t entirely wrong.  His thumb curled against Hannibal’s throat, knuckle pressed lightly toward his pulse.  “Proof.  A friend, if you’ll have me.  If we’ll have each other.”  Before Hannibal could answer, Will cut him off by an abrupt departure back to the equipment, his fingertips just glancing off Hannibal’s hip.  “Relax, and keep your legs spread.”  Whatever they may or may not become to each other, he wasn’t ready for attempts at concrete answers yet—though he had a feeling Hannibal would be unlikely to turn down friendship honestly offered, once he’d had a chance to judge the offering true.  Isolation prioritized companionship, in a wide variety of species. 

Standing between Hannibal’s spread legs, Will pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and coated two fingers in slick.  With his elbow, he flicked on the _Pulsar_ unit to let it start humming to life, prepping the electrical current he’d be using to force contractions in Hannibal’s prostate that would squeeze any remaining semen out of his body. 

The jerk of Hannibal’s hips and the soft noise he made when Will found his prostate with his fingers was entirely expected—what wasn’t was the sincere confusion he could hear in Hannibal’s voice when his voice rose questioningly from the table. 

“I’m—I didn’t realize there’d be an examination.”

“There’s not,” Will said, faintly bemused and more than a little curious.  He stroked Hannibal’s prostate, and watched the play of almost childlike pleasure and puzzlement flicker across his face, his stomach flexing.  Like much else had with this one, as quickly as it seemed charming, the truth snicked into place over Will’s eyes like a filter, clarifying.  He’d expected the probe, not fingers.  Not quiet, gentle introduction.  “Has no one ever done this to you before, Hannibal?”  To punctuate, Will crooked his fingers again.  

The rough little sound that shot out of Hannibal’s throat and died just as fast might have been the rusty beginning of a purr, quickly aborted.  “I’ve been examined, by veterinarians.  When I first came of age a speculum was used to prepare me for the probe.”

“Neither of those things were what I asked.” 

“No, then.”  Seemingly of its own accord, Hannibal’s body bore down around Will’s fingers, his head tilting back.  Despite the day’s exertion, his cock against his stomach was half hard, twitching feebly. 

To settle him to the input of such starting new stimulation, Will’s free hand curled around his thigh and stroked it, his fingers kneading gently at the muscle.  “This should happen every time.  Your body’s made to be stimulated from the inside just like it is on the outside.  That’s what the probe does, but it works best if you’re warmed up a little first, if you’re ready for it.”  In truth, _it_ worked exactly the same, but the effect on the recipient was far different, at least in Will’s experience. 

At the tip of Hannibal’s struggling cock, a bead of pre-come glistened, and Will soaked in the knowledge that came with it.  This wasn’t just new; Hannibal took a lot of pleasure in rectal stimulation.  More, in fact, than most alphas he’d seen.  He’d only been massaging his prostate barely a moment. 

Curious, Will couldn’t keep himself from asking.  “They didn’t do this the first time they taught you what the probe was going to do?” 

Hannibal’s sudden, utter stillness came with a leaden dread that infected Will, too.  He was immediately sorry he’d asked. 

Hannibal turned his head, his chin resting on his own shoulder, voice muffled against the blanket.  “Can we finish?  I’d like dinner.” 

Cursing himself, Will pulled his fingers free.  “Of course.”  Will lifted the probe, coating it liberally with the imitation slick.  “In case you’ve never been told this before, either, I like to give a reminder not to feel bad if you have to pee.  Sooner or later it happens to everyone.”  Universally, due to the nature of the procedure.  Some trainers punished heavily for it because it ruined the sample, but the cruelty in that was pointless.  Contractions were contractions.  Sometimes, they were going to happen in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

 As if he’d just remembered that stipulation, Hannibal’s stomach drew in tighter.  Will wondered what the hell he’d say next and wish he hadn’t.  The last few minutes, he sure seemed to be swinging for the fences. 

“I usually ask to go outside first.  I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were sleeping, and I distracted you when you woke up.  It’s alright.  If it happens, it happens.  I’ll tell Chilton it was my fault.” 

Hannibal’s fingers curled against the edge of the table, slow, bracing.  Will hadn’t really expected that knowledge to calm him.  Any punishment he might have received for that in the past wouldn’t be half as motivating for this one as the shame. 

Will slipped the probe in with a single long, slow glide, the thick shaft of it stretching Hannibal wide.  It always amazed him, how easily their bodies opened for this, almost as easily as an omega’s.  It was easy to see, like this, how it could happen than alphas in rut without an omega nearby could sate their lust on each other. 

Hannibal exhaled, and Will turned on the current.  Waiting, he’d always assumed, was likely the worst. 

The first pulse was marked only be a low grunt, and the expected reflexive flexion of Hannibal’s hips, hunching forward with the confusing urges to hump and bear down on the thing in his ass.  Watching him, Will could see his mouth open as if he was about to speak, only to close as he rode the next pulse.  Will has it set low, though not as low as he’d have used on those he’d trained back in Virginia.  For Hannibal, likely used to pulses strong enough to knock the sperm from him in two to three punches, such slight stimulation would likely draw the process out too much for this first time. 

In itself, the medium level he’d chosen seemed a novelty, though Hannibal took it in increasing silence, his clever eyes closed.  The further his body tried to hunch, the shallower his breathing became, as if all of him was drawing in, centering his mind and walling it off from his hips.  For all the shift and play of muscle in his stomach and the halfhearted flicks of his cock, his lower half had hardly moved at all. 

When the vial filled, it happened suddenly, as was always the way with static stimulation.  Little was happening, and then abruptly everything was, his cock rising quick to full attention, though his knot remained deflated as the little vial filled.  Milk white, a clean sample. 

When the next pulse produced only a sharp inhale and a tired dry heave from his dick, Will switched the power off.  He slid the probe from him very carefully, rubbed gently at his hole once it was removed until it stopped gaping and closed, twitching just faintly under the pad of his finger a moment more before it settled.  A simple matter, but another courtesy he’d have been willing to bet Hannibal was unaccustomed to. 

After he’d removed the sleeve and vial, Will let his hand rest a moment on Hannibal’s belly, his fingers splayed out.  “You did well, Hannibal.  Does anything hurt?” 

“No, Will.”  Will tried not to take note of the fact that orgasms, it seemed, gave Hannibal the ability to use his name. 

Stepping back, the air felt cold against his palm after Hannibal’s skin, though when he curled his palm around the vial the semen in it had warmed the glass.  “You can go ahead and sit up.  As soon as this is put away I’ll take you outside before we go back to get your dinner, and your books.  I think you’ve more than earned two.” 


	5. Chapter 5

After years of regimented workdays, still wandering the compound past 6:15 felt inherently extra, late and exhausting.  He’d have to get used to setting his own hours, making a schedule for he and Hannibal that worked for both of them, and with the rhythm of the facility itself.  Like so much else here it was a promising thought, and he’d learned a lot today.  Those were positives. 

Tipping the scales in the opposite direction, he was exhausted, and he felt too full of his experiences—his, and Hannibal’s.  All that he’d gleaned pressed at his skull from the inside, clawed and gnawed between his ribs.  Too many new certainties, and too many questions. 

Too many, and he was on his still on his way to gather more. 

Back in Hannibal’s room, Will had offered him the choice of two books from a tote bag crammed to overflowing.  He’d deliberated over his choices with such heartbreaking awe and care that Will had been unable to keep from reminding him they would be working together every week, every day.  He’d keep earning rewards, and when he worked through all Will had brought, he’d fill the bag again. 

His eyes, then, had been too bright for Will to look at, but he’d watched Hannibal’s long fingers close around _Walden_ and _An Introduction to Music Theory_. 

Unwilling to leave him abruptly after such a long day, Will had sat on Hannibal’s table with his feet in his chair and pretended to work on paperwork and formalities while Hannibal curled up in bed to read.  Hannibal had pretended not to see through him, and they’d existed together there in Hannibal’s little territory until he fell asleep with Walden still in his hands, tipped forward and resting against his collarbone. 

Sleeping in his own bed, he’d looked even younger than he had in the lab, despite the scars and the gradual silvering of his hair.  Will hadn’t had the heart to take the book from him even to lay it by the bed, but he’d stroked his fingers through Hannibal’s hair until he settled enough to let it rest more comfortably flat against him.  The new angle allowed Will to pull his blanket higher, too, covering the lower pieces of the complex of scars left by the mystery chain he’d worn before he was found. 

With the image so fresh in his mind, though he’d technically reached the end of a long day, Will hadn’t felt like going home. 

Sooner or later, he’d known he wanted to pay Hannibal’s current vets a visit, to have a chance to discuss his case with them in private long before he reached a point where he might need them.  The bet that they kept hours more like typical veterinarians than the average dayshift employee was a solid one, but Will was still relieved to walk into the compound’s hospital  and discover that both doctors were still present, still working.  Working was better than already wrapping up and eager to leave; he could wait. 

Though he had no access to any current patients from the hallway the technician had ushered him into, he meandered down it examining the mixture of cheap art and framed warnings on the walls.  A crooked sign that appeared to have been replaced at least twice warned him all patients were to be restrained before entering the treatment area. 

Around a bend in the hall, he reached a wide window providing a look into what appeared to be the first treatment area itself, large and jumbled.  It was a mass of white and steel with no discernable dominant proportion of either.  Though Will took in 6 treatment tables at a glance, only one was occupied at the moment, the young pup that sat on the edge of it looking almost comically small. 

She looked to be close to 4, approaching sexual maturity but not yet there.  Still a pup, still all round edges and boundless energy and curiosity.   Through the window, Will could see the red band on her wrist that marked her for quick identification as an alpha, and another in deep navy alongside it that he didn’t know the meaning of.  At a facility like this one, it wasn’t much of a leap to consider it might have to do with her sire, or her social group.  It might also serve as an indicator of an already determined buyer, or lack thereof.  A handy, simple ‘for sale’ sign, to the knowledgeable gaze. 

The handler who’d brought her stood to the side, his arms lax, looking bored out of his skull. 

In front of the table, a man with dark hair produced a stuffed manta ray from the pocket of his lab coat and jabbed it playfully at her neck, making the pup giggle and clutch at both his wrist and the little stuffed wings.  Will couldn’t hear her from the other side of the glass, but he didn’t have to to feel lighter for it, like the air around him had expanded under the force of what she’d released into it. 

The veterinarian was smiling too, and Will caught himself nodding, a response to a question he hadn’t even fully formed in his thoughts.  Yes, he’d been right to come here.  If Hannibal had another ally in the facility beyond Barney, surely it was this man. 

With her exam clearly completed, he lifted the pup down to the floor though she could’ve easily jumped, and ruffled her hair with a casual ease that increased his standing in Will’s eyes by another small increment.  Nothing about his behavior looked forced, or self-aware.  If he’d noticed he had an audience at all, it hadn’t made him slip out of his routine. 

Will waited to enter until they’d left through a different exit, slipping quiet in through a swinging door near the window.  The vet’s back was to him at first, but Will didn't even get the chance to introduce himself before he spun around and started talking.   
  
"Will Graham.  I didn't believe it when Chilton sent out the email saying he'd hired you.  Shows how much I know about how much money this place is making off our studs."  There was a little bitterness, there, but none of it directed at Will, and he projected mostly the round edges of good humor.  He held out his hand, his grip was solid but quickly withdrawn when they shook.  "Dr. Brian Zeller.  I’d say somewhere around you’d also find Dr. Jimmy Price, but I’m pretty sure he’s headed home without me today.” 

Given that he’d just made it clear enough they weren’t just coworkers, Will didn’t really _need_ to know more, but the lift of his eyebrows must have asked it. 

The doctor held his hand up, showing off a band that looked silver but was probably something more expensive.  From the three Will could see, he could tell diamond shaped emeralds marked the band like points on a compass. 

“It’s no secret; I was married to him before I got the job.  You might as well know, but it mostly won’t come up.”

“I’m sure it’s nice, getting to work together.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”  Dr. Zeller’s grin dipped with a mischievous curl, wry fondness wrapped around his jab like padding on a blade.  His eyes were brighter than they had been when Will came in, and Will caught the quick motion of his finger pressing against the band, like touching a worry stone. 

He was no expert, not with people, but he’d have been willing to bet it was a happy marriage.  Working with parasapients, he’d spent a lot of time studying signs of affection, of constancy of an individual in their mate’s thoughts.  The details weren’t all that different. 

Will nodded toward the entrance the pup had left from, an unmarked door with a slightly crooked window.  “You were good with her.” 

“I do everything I can to give the little ones a good experience; they need to learn early vets aren’t scary.  This is a hell of a place to grow up.  It doesn’t exactly inspire trust and love.  Not to mention—“  Dr. Zeller turned away from him again, but only long enough to gather a file under his arm, and a test tube into his hand.  “—c’mon back with me to my office.”  The tone he’d interrupted himself with was faster, lower.  He picked up again when he looked over his shoulder and saw Will following.  “She’s easy to be good with.  Her sire was Abernis, and he was one of the best patients I’ve ever had.  I miss him, but I’ll miss him more when we run out of straws and all his pups are sold off and gone.  In here.” 

Following his direction, Will stepped into an office just a little larger than a walk in closet.  The sharp edges of a saw palmetto plant that had protruded well out from its own little corner jabbed through Will’s pants, pricking his calves.  He dropped into a chair with a sagging, faded maroon cushion, and Dr. Zeller squeezed past him.  The plant jabbed at him, too, but he seemed used to it, moving a little further into it rather than away.  He tossed the file down onto a small, round table crammed in next to a squat bookshelf.  The bookshelf overflowed with paper like a waterfall, bent corners reaching down to the table.  The uncovered portions he could see showed that the entire top of the table was made up of a clock face.  Beneath the glass, the hands were still.  

"Was Abernis retired?"  Will asked, half certain he shouldn't ask, half sure that was precisely why he _should_. 

"If he had been, he'd probably be asleep at my house right now."  From the tone, Dr. Zeller had obviously tried for light hearted, but he didn't quite make it.  There was too much tension in his mouth, at the corners of his eyes.  "Retirement rarely happens around here for alphas.  Most of them are fertile to some degree until they die, so why give up an asset?  Can't imagine the FBI's much different so I'm sure you know how it goes.  He died in a training accident.  I did what I could, and what I could was to put him down." 

Wil. did, to an extent, know how it went.  Still, every program he'd worked at since college had been smaller than this place, more contained, a little less ruthless at squeezing every last pup out of their breeding stock.  A parasapient working in the field with an FBI agent could only work so many years, much like field agents themselves.  It made more sense to retire current sires and dams, now and then, and replace them with a proven performer from the field.  

Still, he'd learned enough about large scale operations in school to imagine how this place was run, and the sort of accident Abernis must have died in.  He'd likely been too old to keep up with the young alphas, particularly in a fight.  In name, parasapient fighting had been outlawed since the early 1900's.  In practice, it was permitted for military organizations and others who dealt in forms of protection stock.  How else, they'd argued, could they test and train their companions?  It was a thin excuse, but his urge to poke holes in it had never been appreciated.  He could easily remember the scathing look his professor had given him when he'd pointed out that in training, soldiers didn't go at each other with loaded guns. 

A well trained parasapient, she'd argued, would stop short of the kill. 

For a moment, the thought of what Zeller might have seen filled him, blood bubbling over his fingers, coating his ring.  Hands that trusted him grasping at his sleeve-

Will sat forward, his right hand in a fist, pressed hard into the palm of his left.  "I'm sorry.  I don't think I could do your job." 

"That makes two of us."  For all the bitterness in it, the smile he gave Will then felt almost as real as the one he'd given the little girl.  Zeller leaned back in his chair, tilting it precariously on wheels Will could hear creak.  "Not sure I could do yours either, though; I get attached enough as it is without spending every day with them.  Still, you don't usually have to watch yours die.  That's a plus."

Will tilted his head in concession, and swallowed his arguments.  He hadn't had to watch Anthony die, true enough, but he'd seen the life drain out of his eyes.  He wasn't sure which was worse.  Maybe there was no ‘worse’ in matters like this.  Pain and loss were hard to quantify. 

"So before we talk about Hannibal Lecter-" Zeller's chair clacked forward onto all of its wheels as he shifted to lean against his desk "-I'd like to say off the record that if I had anything _actionable_ about the shit that's been done to him, I'd have already gone to the police.  Jimmy would have too, years ago, but it's not that easy and Hannibal doesn't help.  There's only so much we can do if he won't talk." 

Nothing in the admission surprised him, beyond the absolute confirmation that Barney wasn't the only one who'd met him who didn't see Hannibal as some inexplicable menace.  That wasn't entirely a _surprise_ either, but it did bring an odd, triumphant tightness to his throat.  Grim satisfaction, perhaps, or a version of hope.  These were the people he'd have a chance at convincing with his observations when all was said and done—people  who invested time in parasapients, who cared for them and about them.  People close to the line of a monumental reshaping of opinion, like he was.  Was, had been...at any given moment these days it was hard to say where he fell.  Thoroughly in a state of flux was probably the best answer, all in all. 

"This entire conversation is off the record,” Will said.  Idly, he wondered if he should have reached out to close the door, for emphasis.  He let it be.   "I'm not here officially and I don't want official answers.  Those won't help me understand where he's been.  If I don't know that, I can't help him." 

"Are you so sure you can?  I mean don't get me wrong, the way he is was totally preventable, but he's dangerous.  At this point taking him like he is is probably the best—“

"How much of the abuse you suspect happened after he got here?" 

The dark look in Zeller’s eyes said plenty on its own.  He tapped the desk, rising out of his chair with enough force to knock it into the wall.  “Just a minute.” 

Will leaned forward to let him get past, listened to him rummaging around out in the hallway, maybe even into the room next door. 

Across the distance, his voice carried, “We got this out the other day because I knew you’d be wanting to take a look at it.  There’s not too much you don’t have access to already, but there’s a few things you’ll find interesting, and a few more that should be in here that aren’t.” 

This time, when Zeller came in, he did close the door.  The medical file in his hand wasn’t nearly as thick as the personal file Will had at home, but it was long.  Long enough to contain x-rays, which he could see were inside separate folders and tucked into the back, sticking out the end.  When he sat back down, Zeller didn’t hand it over just yet. 

“About ten years ago, Jimmy comes home looking like he’s about to punch someone’s face in.  You don’t know him but let me tell you, he’s not a violent man.  I knew something was up before he even got it out, but when he did—“  Zeller shook his head, redirecting or refocusing.  His knuckles rapped against the cover of the file.  “You won’t find a single picture from that afternoon in here, but Hannibal’s eyes were swollen shut for days.” 

Will’s stomach jerked, a sharp, cutting chill. 

“The way Dr. Chilton tells it, Hannibal snapped, attacked an alpha.  At that point he still had some off leash yard time, and he claims Hannibal used to freedom to try and pick a fight.  In the process of subduing him, he was injured badly enough Jimmy had to keep him here at the hospital for two weeks.  The damage done was—hold on.”  Zeller flipped the folder open then, skimming and thumbing until he stopped at a notice written in looping blue pen on green paper.  Will could read it even upside down, but Zeller read it aloud anyway.  “ ‘Necessary but regrettable force’.  Do you believe this shit?  I mean, I’ve seen Hannibal do some impressive things, but I don’t think half a dozen grown men beating an animal to within an inch of their life can ever be considered _necessary force_.” 

Unable to get an answer out of his throat just yet, Will shook his head.  In his mind, he saw only the bright depths of Hannibal’s eyes, shining and sharp.  The urge to go back and find him sleeping peacefully was strong, and sudden.  His eyelids would feel thin under Will’s thumb.  Fragile, and soft. 

Will shifted a little closer, perched now on the edge of his seat.  “Did anyone ever ask Hannibal what happened?”

“Hell, I’m sure Jimmy did but,”  Zeller threw up his hand, let it slap back down against the paper.  “He doesn’t talk about those things, I’m telling you, not in any meaningful way.  He might calmly say he did what needed to be done or something equally vague but it’s few and far between you can get him to elaborate.  What he _did_ get, though, were pictures of Hannibal’s injuries and the testimony of an omega who’d been out in the yard at the time who swore up and down that Hannibal kept her from being raped.” 

“They let them out together?”

“The ones that aren’t in heat or in rut and are considered appropriate for playing well with others, yeah, but this guy was pretty new and she says he was threatening her, keepers weren’t paying attention, Hannibal comes up calm as you please and throws him to the ground to castrate him with his teeth.” 

For a moment, Will let himself go there.  Sunlight and birdsong and a crying omega, Hannibal’s nails digging into the struggling alpha’s thigh, the stretch of skin beneath his teeth, the spray of blood. 

Will could taste on his tongue when he swallowed, like burnt metal, thick and dark and wild.  “A punishment to fit the crime.”

“Yeah, or the intended crime anyway.  If I remember right, Jimmy said Hannibal agreed that was the way it went but there was no proof, just an alpha with his entire genital area mauled off and Hannibal beaten to hell.  Chilton wanted to cover it up quick and that’s no surprise, but what _was_ was the way Jimmy’s pictures disappeared.  You won’t find a thing on that incident in here beyond what I just showed you.  He didn’t just want it hushed, he wanted it erased.” 

“Not exactly the mark of a man who uses necessary force.”  Will’s wry smile turned his words sharp and brittle, tipped up a little further at the corners when Zeller laughed.  Reaching over, Will tugged at the file.  Zeller let him take it, though he kept the x-ray at the back, pulling it free to separate.  Will skimmed by flipping quick through pages held up and released, scanning information that was largely a mass of physicals and breeding soundness exams.  “What do you know about what happened to him when he was a pup, before the shelter?”

“Barely more than you do.  I tried the first time I gave him a physical, but he doesn’t remember much.  Whatever happened to him, he’s got a span of memory before it and after it.  Given what I know he’s taken and mostly kept his head after, I don’t think I want to know what’s bad enough that even _his_ mind had to block it out.” 

He might not want to know, but Will had to.  It was an inextricable piece of the puzzle, vital and near the core.  Whatever else he dug after, whatever corners he filled out, if he was going to understand Hannibal, he’d always be coming back there, to the picture of a boy with burns on his neck and hip and cut off eyes. 

“You said barely,”  Will prodded, not looking up.  He’d found a list of Hannibal’s children.  “What did he tell you?”

“He got sick one year, a bad virus that was making the rounds.  He was hospitalized, kept complaining of the cold.  He doesn’t complain, so I was worried.  Tried to get him warm, keep him company.  He was out of it, said it was snowing again and blue eyes and feathers would be back.  I couldn’t get much more out of him after that, but I tried to take the chance to ask him what happened to his hip.”  Zeller sighed, and the sound was tired enough to draw Will’s eyes up to meet his.  “He said a staircase fell.  If a staircase fell on him, it was on _fire_ because those pictures—“

“Look like third degree burns, yeah.  I know.”  He’d seen them before, in Louisiana.  He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon the way the skin bubbled up, all red and yellow and still hot to the touch. 

“Yeah.  And there’s this, too.”  Shaking out the x-ray, Zeller held it up toward the light.  “Do you see this, here?”  The tip of his finger almost touched the film, pointing at a subtly thick, somewhat uneven section on the face of an otherwise normally curving bone.  “That wasn’t set properly, but it healed a long time ago.  Probably when he was pup.  Maybe the staircase did it, but he’s not holding his arm close to his chest in that picture.  You ask me, the break came and healed before.  Now you can dig into all this as much as you want and I can’t stop you, but as his vet…”  Zeller drooped back into chair, the x-ray film bending with his hand with a strange, curling sound.  “I don’t think he needs to remember any of this.  I really don’t.”

Will rubbed his thumb against the stack of pages resting on his thigh, felt them slice just slightly into his skin.  “Can I take this, off the record?”  At the sign of a face that held clear reservations, Will pressed harder.  “Just for a few days; I’ll bring it back.” 

Zeller nodded, and Will immediately flopped it closed and held it close. 

\----- 

The house still smelled like trout.  Will had fried it on autopilot, sautéed green beans with garlic in a second pan because he needed something to go with it.  After a bite of the fish, he'd divvied it up among the dogs and eaten a couple forkfuls of green beans.  Since the dogs couldn't eat the garlic, the rest of those had gone into the fridge.  It was just as well; the fish had been enough of a treat on its own.  Moonbeam hadn't quite been able to accept there wasn't more of it.  Nearly three hours later, and periodically she was still lifting her short snout and testing the air hopefully as if the presence of scent meant more fish might appear between her paws at any moment.

Will settled back against the headboard, swallowing a sip of whisky with a sigh.  Hannibal's two folders lay on the bed next to him, heavy, pulling down the blankets.  He'd spent his day full of Hannibal and still he'd brought his work all the way into bed with him, filling up his life to the brim.  Easy to do, when the draw wasn't just the work itself- after all, hadn't he felt Hannibal's magnetism the first moment he'd met him?   And if he had, was it even Hannibal that caused it, or Will's draw  to the race he'd spent his life fascinated with?  Both, perhaps, or something more personal?  He couldn't remember feeling that itch in his palm to touch even with Beverly and Anthony.  Not even with Georgia.

Will set the glass down on his end table, sitting up to assuage the sensation of having touched a hot eye in his mind, her memory bright and sharp.  Will lifted the medical file, and shuttered his mind to all else.

From all that Dr. Zeller had and hadn’t said, it was plain the evidence of abuse he’d find here was probably dwarfed by missing evidence he _wouldn’t_ find.  There was no doubt what he held was full of insidious secrets, from the explicitly stated to the vaguely recorded.  Moving past the basic information, he found notes made by the vet that had examined him some time after his arrival at the shelter, their notes sparse. 

_Alpha male, soon to mature.  Healthy and strong, though bears significant scarring for his age.  Shows aversion to cold but doesn't easily catch chill.  Compliant when directed.  When tested, socializes best with omegas, betas, and less demonstrative alphas.  Not suited to group dynamics without supervision.  Mute._

"Well that's shit."  Will's voice was scratchy, and chased by the wagging of at least two tails that he could hear.  Preemptive soothing.  God, he loved his dogs.  "It is; it's shit.  You'd think so, too."  The single remaining wagger sounded swishy.  Probably Moonbeam. 

This piece was ill fitting, to say the least.  Hardly an expected characteristic of an individual that would go on to in just a few short years speak two languages fluently.  It was, however, entirely consistent with severe trauma, and bore out exactly what Zeller had indicated—something had happened to Hannibal too dark for his mind to bear.  Too much for a pup, too much for a full grown alpha. 

Beyond that sobering thought, a dull ache in Will’s jaw from the clench of his teeth forced him to acknowledge the other implications such early silence carried, particularly after such drastic trauma.    There was a lot that could be done to parasapients that could be contorted to escape notice, and more still that could be done when they had no ability to tell anyone about it. 

How long had it been, before he spoke?  Long enough that he’d learned to keep quiet, whatever was done to him?  Long enough that it felt natural? 

Eager to rid his mind of the sudden image of Hannibal alone and cold and silent, licking his own wounds, Will skipped further, aimless, only slowing when the handwriting on the pages became varied in style, showing a dozen different hands in the span of a few sheets.  Roughly half of them had written in French. 

Will leaned back, balancing he folder on his chest as his eyes tracked over the notes.  Most of it was simple, physicals repeated over and over by different hands, vitals taken, breeding soundness exams perform, fond notes—

Lydia crashed into his legs, and Will jumped so hard he almost dropped the file.  When he looked up, she was hunched sheepishly over his legs like a roosting chicken, tiny ears awkwardly folded back against her big head.  He’d known it was her immediately by the razor sharpness of her nails, overgrown and quick to draw blood.  As the newest rescue in the house, she still had a lot to learn.  If he hadn’t spent two months trying to get her to sit with him when he asked, he’d have ordered her off the bed immediately for not asking first. 

Under the covers, he could feel welts rising on his calves. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.  It’s okay.  You did good; it’s okay.”  The more he murmured it, the more her eagle grip on his legs relaxed.  By the time he’d shifted his focus back to the file, she was laying across his lower legs almost comfortably.  When her head came down to rest against his thigh, he could feel her sigh. 

After another handful of pages he could barely read, Will’s eyes were burning.  He was just on the cups of putting it down to call it a night when a note in perfect near-calligraphy curls caught his eye, more for the signature at first than for the words.  _Revana Mercier_. 

Will’s fingers leapt the page, trailing under her note with the sudden thrill of treasure unearthed. 

_The army wrote him off as unpredictable, but he isn’t.  He cannot be restrained unless he wills it.  When careful, he poses no danger during any procedure.  He does not cry.  Topical anesthetic is rarely required, and he’ll ask for it to be avoided._

_In the pen, he looks after the omegas, and the little ones.  It’s the aggressive that aren’t safe from him, rather than the vulnerable.  He is entirely predictable, and safe for use in even classroom demonstrations.  I would take him to the primary school as the example of a laboratory parasapient before I would take any of the others._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of direct hannigram interaction in this chapter...however, there was mental interaction, from Will's side, and he learned a lot. The next chapter starts with the two of them, and I will prooobably be done finalizing it/ready to post it on Saturday, :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will finish responding to reviews later tonight, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up now. You guys are amaaaaaazing and I love you all <3

When Will entered the room, Hannibal was lost in his book.  Based on the thickness of the pages Will could see from where it rested tipped up against the foot of Hannibal’s bed, there was no question he was still working on _Les Miserables_ , the novel he’d just started three days ago.  In two weeks, he’d already worked his way through seven books.  Will had teased him, gently, that he’d be needing to refill the bag much sooner than he’d thought, at this rate.  This book, though, was a special treat, picked out for him at the bookstore over the weekend for the French connection he thought might interest Hannibal and for the size, to challenge him.  The choice to buy a nice, leather bound copy was all fondness, no trace of motive or practicality. 

He’d come by on his day off to give it to him, and Hannibal had taken it like a kid being given a puppy.  Will’s chest had felt so tight it hurt to breathe all the way home, and he’d rolled the windows down to get some fresh air. 

It wasn’t too far off from the look he got when Hannibal glanced up from his book to see Will returning, unlooked for since they’d already finished their session for the day.  Initial facial responses betrayed truth, even if they were only a flicker, quickly corrected.  It hurt with a deeper ache than Will was used to that Hannibal corrected nothing but let the pleasure in his surprise remain on display, undisguised. 

“Will.  I thought you’d gone home.” 

“I had, but I thought Barney could use a shot to go home a little early so we planned this the other day.  It gives me a chance to spend a little downtime with you, too, and I wanted to surprise you.  Plus, I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I’d made the arrangements.” 

Hannibal waited him out, still stretched out on his bed under his blanket, unmoved.  Will had the idea that if the rest of his surprise wasn’t interesting enough, Hannibal might ask to go back to his book.  He only just caught himself before he laughed at the thought, the swell of warm amusement pressing him a little closer.    

“How would you like to go swimming?  Barney told me it used to be your favorite enrichment option, when you had them.” 

“I still don’t have them.  Dr. Chilton informed me informed me in no uncertain terms the restriction of my privileges was permanent.” 

“Yeah, well you have me now.”  Will said, emphatic, pleased when the assertion made Hannibal rise up a little higher with interest, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.  “I’m supposed to be in charge of you, and I think you need to get out more.  If he’s got a problem, I’m not afraid to call him on his bullshit.” 

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed with humor, and there was anticipation in the way his hand hovered now at the edge of the bed, ready to push himself up.  Anticipation, and hope.  Will desperately wanted him to hope, and to have the experience again and again of having his hopes realized.  The fact that he hadn’t lost the ability to hope after the course his life had taken was, frankly, utterly astounding. 

“So I’ll ask again,”  Will said, holding up the harness.  The leash clinked against the buckle, and Hannibal’s fingers searched for the strip of paper he used to mark his place, finding and placing it blind.  “I’ve got the pool booked for an hour.  Do you want to go swimming?”    

Hannibal was up and out of bed with a rapidity that would have been hilarious, if it didn’t hurt.  He’d been allowed exercise, sure—it was mandated, to keep him in fighting condition, but God only knew when the last time was he’d been allowed to get out of his room and have _fun_.  He clearly enjoyed his walks in the yard when he could have them, but those were too few and he wasn’t really allowed much freedom there, not like most of the other parasapients at the facility were.  He was allowed no socializing, no opportunities for offsite enrichment.  Few members of the staff would have had the proper permit to take him home once he’d been marked dangerous anyway, and those who did had shown no interest in trying. 

He’d been unable to resist asking Zeller about that, when he’d brought the file back.  It was clear he cared about Hannibal, and Will had no doubts as a veterinarian he’d have the permit required to take even wilder patients than Hannibal home if need be.  His curiosity had been strong, but he’d suspected the answer even before he asked, and Zeller’s obvious chagrin had given him the answer before he spoke. 

He had the permit, and he cared, but Hannibal had a hair trigger that Zeller didn’t trust his knowledge of.  Not with two of his own parasapients and a cat alongside Jimmy and himself at home.  In all fairness, Will hadn’t really been able to fault him for that.  He had a lot of patients—he cared, but he hadn’t spent the in depth time with Hannibal it’d take most people to get a good feel for him.  Some people probably never could, even if they’d come every day.  Will, he felt like he’d known him for ages, like a shadow in the back of his mind, a word on the tip of his tongue.  Like the scent of saltwater, old and deep, grounding. 

Illogical, inexplicable, but true all the same. 

With Hannibal in his harness, they set off, a note left on the chart alongside Hannibal’s door that he was out for exercise. 

The nod to protocol seemed to amuse Hannibal, though there was, too, genuine tension in his shoulders when he spoke.  “They’ll expect to find me in the arena, or in the yard.  If someone checks and finds that I’m in neither—“

“You’re with me, like I said.  You don’t need to worry about that.”  Will’s fingers curled against the leash, absently possessive.  “I would never allow you to be punished for something I did.  If anyone has a problem, they can take it up with me.  I know you don’t trust me, but can you give me that much at least and see if I follow through?” 

“I did say I wanted to go, didn’t I?” 

Will conceded the point with a tilt of his head, and for the moment kept his silence.  He could feel Hannibal working his way up to saying more, his deliberation in the way his hands tangled together and separated, the absent scenting of the air between buildings that seemed more out of habit than interest.

“In all honesty, I can think of little I’d like more than to trust you.”  Hannibal wasn’t looking at Will when he said it, and it was whisper soft, but solid with such weight that Will couldn’t have missed it.  There was worry in the crease of Hannibal’s eyes, though he smoothed it out with the stretch of his neck, his face tilted toward the soft navy of the sky.  There were no stars, here.  The compound was too bright.  “It’s probably the most impossible thing I could have imagined, but I’d like to believe it’s possible.  It fascinates me to think that the world could be strange enough for you and I to exist at the same time, if you are everything you seem.” 

Will felt oddly disconnected from his fingers, and more connected to the leash.  As if they’d dissolved, and his pulse beat instead against the point that tied them, vein stretched thin.  “What do I seem, to you?” 

The twist of Hannibal’s smile turned something in Will’s gut, like the click of a key.  “If I told you, it might change.” 

“Like blowing out candles?  Can’t tell anyone or it won’t come true?”  From the furrow in his forehead, Will could tell Hannibal didn’t get it, and he regretted the grasp at levity.  He reached out to squeeze Hannibal’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry; forget it.  It’s not important.”  What had been was the heaviness of the air between them, the honesty in Hannibal he’d drawn out and now felt like he’d fumbled.  Will turned them down the thinner gravel that covered the last stretch to the aquatic center, his thumb digging in a little as he kneaded at Hannibal’s shoulder again.  “When you do decide whether you can trust me—“

“I’ll tell you, yes.”  Hannibal hesitated, his breath still expectant after, still close to speech. 

Will waited, continued to even when they’d reached the door.  He could feel the rust of it beneath his fingers, the tickle of a mosquito buzzing against his knuckles.  When there seemed to be nothing forthcoming Hannibal could get out, Will exhaled slowly, and tried to help him. 

“I can promise to tell you the same, but that’s not what you want, is it?  There’s something else you want from me, if I can give it.” 

Hannibal nodded, once, close and tight.  Like it hurt. 

“You don’t have to tell me that now, either.  Give it a chance to come true.”  Will searched for Hannibal’s eyes in the dim light, and couldn’t find them.  They hid behind the fringe of his hair, turned just slightly enough away to matter.  “Maybe I’ll surprise you.” 

For that, Hannibal found his ease again, shedding tension in the flash of his smile, the sweep of his hand toward the door like a footman showing in a guest.  “Haven’t you already?” 

The door to the aquatic center creaked open when Will yanked on it, a rusty, squealing sound  that hid Will’s huff of good humor.  The strange feeling of turned gears lingered with him, though, as if in his admission of a desire for trust and something unnamable besides Hannibal had reached into him and rearranged him, left fingerprints where hands didn’t belong.       

Much like the out of date probe equipment, the aquatic facilities certainly weren’t state of the art.  The arena was, entirely, but there were more than a few reasons for that.  Breeding competitive, working parasapients well versed in a variety of military and protection techniques required functional equipment, and selling those individuals required a good way to show them off.  Beyond the updated equipment itself, even the environment was looked after with care, enormous bay windows fronted boxes that allowed visitors to look down on the action while they took notes or sipped champagne.  It was one of the few places in the compound intended to be in the public eye, and it showed. 

This place, on the other hand, probably hadn’t made it into any kind of public brochure or press coverage since the 70’s.  The floor around the pool was made up of small, tan tiles with dark grout that reminded Will of a roadside motel bathroom floor, a throwback to his childhood.  The chipped paint in the pool itself fit the age, too.  Still, the water was clean and well maintained, and the pool was enormous.  Intended to be large enough for social groups to exercise in, it’d be vast for Hannibal by himself. 

Not that Will could exactly give him the run of it, not this first time.  If Chilton did choose to challenge him here, he needed to have at least partially played by the rules.  Besides, as much as his instincts told him Hannibal wouldn’t try to get from him, common sense still nagged him to be careful, for at least a little while longer.  The desire to trust ran deep in Will, too, present, and growing, but not yet able to stand on its own. 

At the end of the pool, Will reached out to snag one of the ropes that hung down from the ceiling, white strands gone dingy brown near the ponderous clip from countless hands over the years.  Above, it stretched on for ages to reach the high ceiling, ending in a track too far away and too dark for Will to clearly see it.  He’d done his homework, though, and when he’d tested a couple swings of them before, the wheels at the top still moved pretty easily.  The tether would serve as a restriction, but a less irritating one than it could have been since he could still reach the length of the pool. 

Will clipped it to Hannibal’s harness, one hand lingering gently at the nape of his neck as the other unclipped his leash.  “Just don’t chew through the rope, okay?”  Will said, full of lightly prodding humor.  He wasn’t sure, yet, how far to tease him, how much of Will’s humor he could effectively read.   

Plenty, in all likelihood, if Hannibal’s withering stare was anything to go by.  The irritation stamped across his face was a little too pronounced to be fully genuine, the glimmer in his eyes a little too bright.  “It smells like mildew.” 

“If it didn’t, would you be tempted?”

In what seemed a clear refusal to dignify that with a response, Hannibal reached up behind him and got a solid grip on the rope, using it to swing out over the water and out of Will’s reach.  He’d known Hannibal was strong—looking at him and feeling his muscles it certainly couldn’t be doubted—but there was a difference in knowing and in the thrill of seeing the brazen display of upper body strength before him now. 

It was nothing to him to haul himself up hand over hand a little higher without even using his feet, nothing to tug the rope into a wider swing and drop with a magnificent splash into the water. 

As he’d surely intended, Will was wet, and laughing when Hannibal resurfaced. 

His grin was charmingly smug.  “What a shame.  You were so dry.”

“Did I ever say I intended to stay that way?”  In truth, he _had_ intended to stay that way, but now that he was wet already there seemed little harm in removing his shoes and socks, rolling his pants up and sitting on the edge of the pool.  He’d look ridiculous, but he didn’t care one way or the other for the lack of fashion.  The look of something like disappointment in Hannibal’s dip in treading water when Will sat down, though, was certainly interesting. 

“You aren’t getting in?”

“Did you think I was?” 

Rather than answer, Hannibal ducked under the water again, cutting through the water with a smooth breaststroke to put a little more distance between them.  It was wordless, but Will didn’t have any doubts, now, about his assessment of disappointment.  Not with Hannibal very carefully rising up only to go under again, seemingly transfixed now by the broken tile on the bottom of the pool.

For all his  determined shows of independence, beneath them the closer he got the more Hannibal seemed…clingy implied derogatory connotations, and Will felt none.  Besides, it wasn’t the right fit.  He was touched starved, undoubtedly, but Will had diagnosed that right away.  Attention starved, too.  Intellectually bored.  Starved of a point of deep connection as well, perhaps?  A hunger for intimacy?  He couldn’t pin down the right word for it in humans, much less in parasapients. 

Will shook his head, self-correcting.  Whatever the word was, it would be the same. 

He waited until Hannibal surfaced again to call out over the water, his voice carrying weirdly louder than intended in the cavernous room.  “I don’t have a swimsuit.” 

Like a dog recalled after a scolding, Hannibal drifted back. 

“Neither do I.” 

The rush of self-consciousness was strange, driving Will to rub at the back of his neck.  How could he begin to explain that human nudity was different, unnatural?  Explain, and admit the answers were based on foundations he now believed were built on sand? 

Will cleared his throat.  “Maybe sometime soon.  I haven’t been swimming in a long time.” 

“But you used to?”

“Yeah, almost every day.  I grew up on the coast, in Louisiana.  I learned to swim in the ocean.”  Hannibal was close enough, now, that his hands almost brushed Will’s calf as he kept himself afloat in deep water, lazy, easy.  He’d done this a great deal.  On impulse, Will reached out and tucked a wet strand of hair back from his eyes.  “Where did you learn, here?” 

Hannibal shook his head, and ducked under.  The rope stretched as he tried to go further than it would allow him, the clip pinging with the tension before he rose back up, on Will’s other side. 

Undeterred, Will carefully pushed forward.  “In Paris?” 

Hannibal studied Will’s legs under the water, rose up just far enough to put his mouth above the waterline.  “I could pull you in, you know.”

“You could, but you won’t.  Drowning’s not really your style.”  It felt true, as he said it.  The thought of what _was_ Hannibal’s style didn’t even unsettle him.  He wasn’t worried about those teeth, in the water or out of it.  “Besides, I’m interesting.  I _did_ tell you I’d want to talk about some things you might not have been asked, but I’m fair.  I’ll answer a question if you will.” 

In thinking, Hannibal swam away from him.  It was peaceful, watching him.  His lines through the water were filled with a grace and strength Will had never mastered, and he’d been pretty good, in his day.  Hannibal carried the same easy physicality most parasapients had, but watching him then Will could only wonder how much of it was really innate, how much stronger they’d be than humans if they weren’t pushed so hard, trained so deliberately.  Human athletes could reach some decent extremes, too.  There were undeniable biological differences, but would a parasapient who’d spend most of their life as a housepet outperform an athlete who’d honed their body to a certain task?  Somehow, he doubted it.  Like much else, so far as he was aware the topic had never been studied. 

After two laps Hannibal came back to him, his arms folding easily on the edge of the pool as his legs kicked lazily behind him.  His chin dug into his arm, and his elbow just barely touched Will’s thigh, water seeping into the cloth from the point of connection. 

Will stroked his hair.  “You’re a very good swimmer, Hannibal.” 

“Tell me about swimming in Louisiana.” 

Will’s nails scratched gently at Hannibal’s scalp, again harder when a soft sound escaped him and his eyes slipped half closed.  “It was a necessity, in the summers.  It’s hot there, even hotter than it is here.  You step out your door and it feels like the humidity might melt the fat and muscle right off your bones.  Like you’re being steamed alive.  I didn’t really mind it, though.  There’s something oddly comforting about air you can feel.” 

“You’re surrounded.  Held by the breath of the earth.”  Hannibal’s murmur was lazy, almost sleepy.  Will resisted the urge to ask him if that had been from _Walden_ , or his own extrapolations. 

“You can’t swim in the lakes, though, unless you want to get eaten.  The alligators are everywhere, but they’re not a problem unless you fuck with them.  Respect them and they’ll ignore you.” 

“Hard to imagine a human feeling like prey.” 

“Is that how you feel?”

Hannibal’s eyes cracked open wider, then narrowed.  “One question at a time, and you’ve already asked.  I’ll tell you where I learned, once you’re finished.” 

Will’s laughter echoed, and he gave into the urge to let his hand slide down and feel the curve of Hannibal’s smile against his thumb, warm and real.  Hannibal’s teeth clicked together in the mockery of a nip, but he hadn’t moved, had barely even parted his lips.  Hadn’t stopped smiling, either. 

“My dad taught me, off the docks where we’d go so he could work on boats.  I loved helping him, and he loved taking breaks to play in the water with me.  Gave me a chance to feel big and him a chance to feel young again, I think.  I got to where I liked the swimming enough that in 8th grade I tried out for the school team.”  Will could feel his throat tightening, chest pinching.  He hadn’t meant to go for this memory, really, but it had just bubbled out of him, drawn forth by association.  “I was so excited when they told me I made the cut, but they gave us all this letter to send home and…there was so much in it.  So much I’d need, a special suit and competition fees and…I knew he didn’t have $150 to spare, and I knew he’d have found it anyway.  I tossed it and told him I didn’t make it.  He took me out for ice cream and told me it was a popularity contest and I didn’t need it anyway.” 

Will’s eyes burned, and he drew his hand away to press against the tile as he leaned back, his head tipped until his neck ached, gazing up into the black reaches of the rafters and smelling the harshness of the chlorine.  It still wasn’t enough to overpower Hannibal entirely, not when he was so close, the warm alpha scent of him rich and settling.  There were a whole host of reasons people kept parasapients as pets, and Will could understand them.  Their reasons weren’t wrong, in some ways.  They _were_ comforting, but that didn’t make them a thing to own.  Dogs were comforting, too. 

Hannibal’s elbow dug into Will’s thigh as he shifted, his breath warm as he nuzzled lightly at Will’s hip.  Careful affection, hesitantly offered.  Will swallowed, and didn’t look down. 

“You loved your father very much.”

“Very much, yeah.” 

The water rippled as Hannibal slipped fully back into it, a quiet, soft sound like drips from leaves in the rain.  “I never knew my father.  I think I loved my mother.  It was a long time ago.” 

Will’s eyes blinked open, the raw vulnerability in Hannibal’s admission drawing him out of his own memories like the snap of a rubber band.   Looking at him, a little more hunched than he’d been before, his eyes on the water without searching, without seeing, Will could feel the truth as clearly and heavily as tug he’d just felt toward his father’s memory.  Real, and pressing.  A lasting impression. 

“You think?”  Will said, all softness, wanting too desperately to resist the question to lead Hannibal to the truth of it himself, to make him admit he already understood. 

“It’s not an experience that’s happened to me often.”

“Doesn’t have to, to know it when it does.” 

“She taught us to swim.  In the mornings, at the pond on the Lecter estate.” 

To keep himself from asking too much, from derailing this, Will bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood. 

“We would go out when the mist was still on the water; it was cold, but I didn’t mind it then.  She would put Mischa on her back and hold my hands and—“

Across the room, the door banged open, echoing gunshot loud.  Hannibal’s head jerked around like a fox scenting hounds, and Will slammed his palm down against the edge of the pool to keep from swearing. 

Dr. Chilton was flanked by two guards, and their shoes made an obnoxious, wet sound as they marched across the tile.  Will had the sudden, vicious thought that he hoped they all fell and cracked their heads open. 

He held his hand out, forced the curl of his fingers toward welcoming rather than rigid.  “Hannibal, come to me.  Do it now.”  The cut of tension through Hannibal’s shoulders was fierce, knotted.  It took nothing at all to know that he was wondering how hard it _would_ be to pull a person in, how tight he’d have to draw the rope around their neck to drown them more quickly.  Will considered slipping into the water with him, and quickly dismissed it.  He didn’t have to; he still had control if Hannibal would _listen_.  “Hannibal, please.  He won’t touch you; just come to me.” 

The shift in the water was gratifying, but it was the press of Hannibal’s wet palm to his thigh that seemed to bolster the beat of his heart in his chest, like the transference of some vital force.  The fabric of his pants soaked through beneath Hannibal’s touch, and Hannibal was still watching Chilton’s approach with grim transfixion, but he was there, and he let Will put his arm around him, fingers curled against his shoulder.  It wasn’t trust ,but it was something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me, XD 
> 
> First Will and Chilton showdown, coming up the week of the 2nd, :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make zero promises cause I don't want to disappoint anyone, but as this is a holiday week for me here in the states, there's a chaaaance there will be three chapters instead of two. No promises. XD
> 
> You guys are incredible and I love you all <3

Chilton’s head tipped up before he spoke, like a dog trying to gain high ground in a confrontation by the tilt of his muzzle.  “I’d move away from him if I were you, Dr. Graham.  He’s in the perfect position to dislocate your knee and drag you in, but we’ll handle it.” 

With a wave of his hand, the flanking guards drew closer, as if they’d been released to flush a bird.  Will could feel the increasingly deadly nature of Hannibal’s stillness, though he didn’t look down to see it.  It was all reflex, beneath concern so long as Will didn’t let this conversation get out of hand.  If he could keep the guards back, Hannibal would breathe more freely and stop clinging to his thigh like a raptor set to launch from a glove.    

Will made eye contact with each of the guards in turn as he held his hand up to stop them, kept the force of command in his gaze in silence until they’d come to stop.  Not close enough to touch, but still too close for comfort.  “I’m handling him just fine, thanks.  You can move back against the wall; you won’t be needed.” 

One of the guards made an aborted, weak attempt to move, his knee still cocked when Chilton spoke for them.

“Dr. Graham—“

"I thought I'd mentioned this already, but it's Mr. Graham.  I never finished my dissertation; there didn't seem to be a point," Will said, light and careless, sounding as unbothered by both the interruption and the discrepancy in their titles as he felt.  "I was already working in the field, making strides that challenged the theories I'd studied in school.  Another piece of paper and a few more semesters of tuition wouldn't have made me better at my job."  Will's thumb traced against the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder, absently calming.  He wanted desperately to see Hannibal’s face, but looking away from Chilton now could lose him an important advantage.  So many of the rules he'd learned working with parasapients applied to man, too.  It should have been a wonder, really, that it took him so long to properly catch on to the truth of the beings he studied, but there was no _wonder_ in it.  All the strangeness of his world was entirely by design, insidious and deep.  He kept his smile slight and disarming, soft curves at the corners.  He was not intimidated, only afraid of how this could end if Hannibal lost confidence in his protection.    
  
Chilton's answering smile was thin, pressed.  As if he was pinching it from the inside to hold something in. "You do certainly have talent; I'll give you that.  Be that as it may, Hannibal Lecter poses an extreme danger that even the most skilled-"  
  
"You'll pardon the interruption-"  If the look on Chilton's face could have spoken for him, he didn't pardon it at all.  Will pressed on regardless.  "-but isn't that why you brought me here?  I had mentioned that I'd be open to work at another facility if a suitably promising situation presented itself, and you contacted me.  You told me about Hannibal, and I agreed to handle him for you."  A swell of protectiveness rose in him, spurred by the still vivid image of how Hannibal had changed, all the softness he'd had when he spoke of his mother gone from him the instant Chilton had opened the door.  “Well, I’m handling him.  His care is my responsibility.”  That it was also a privilege seemed best not to say, but the reverberation of it unsaid in his chest pushed him to sit up a little straighter.  “I won’t put him in a position that’ll put anyone but me at risk, and I won’t let him be treated unfairly, either.”

“You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who’ll agree that monster’s been treated unfairly.  The fact that he’s alive at all shows just how hard everyone around him has worked to manage his instability.”  Chilton’s arms crossed over his chest, gaping his blazer to expose the taser at his own belt—Will would have to assume the slip was intentional.  It was no wonder, really, that he’d carry one; five minutes with the man would be enough to tell anyone he was bone terrified of the creatures he managed.  Probably had nightmares of falling into the arena with the ones he’d wronged, feeling blunt nails plunge into his eyes and sharp teeth catching flesh and ripping deep. 

Will blinked out of his recreation, cursing himself.  Now _wasn’t_ the time to lose focus, not with Hannibal next to him.  To settle himself and Hannibal both, he shifted his hand to the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  In the water, Hannibal’s leg brushed his.  As intentional as Chilton’s posturing, he was certain, and far more welcome. 

“Since I’ve gotten here, I’ve actually had the time to start on some research of my own.  I’m not nearly finished, but it’s interesting you feel that way, Dr. Chilton—“ Will’s Louisiana drawl came out there, a mark of soft politeness so often Will wondered if Chilton would catch the twinge of insult in the way his title drew out just a little too much.  Will had learned when he was little from the tourists, most Northerners couldn’t catch the intricacies of Southern insults.  They were far too used to saying what they meant, less decorated.  “—when it’s your assessments that don’t match.  It’s almost like you haven’t worked with Hannibal on a personal basis at all.” 

Hannibal’s breath huffed against his thigh, and Will squeezed at his nape gently, most of the pressure on the heel of his hand against Hannibal’s spine.  In response, Hannibal sank lower in the water, his chin coming to rest alongside his hand.  The position made it press sharp into Will’s muscle, uncomfortable with the angle and the way Hannibal hung in the water.  Will didn’t try to move him. 

“I’ve had sessions with him, though one was enough for his blatant instability to rear its head.  If I’d restricted him sooner—“

“You’d have had more trouble.  There’s no animal in the world that becomes less aggressive when it’s cornered and bored.”  Not tigers, not man.  Not anything.  Chasing the point, Will took the chance to gesture toward the pool.  “That’s part of why I brought him here.  You wanted me to make him a viable asset, and I’m trying, but I have to have the right tools.  A large part of the equation for Hannibal is a little background knowledge, a lot of respect, and a decent amount of common sense but the rest—“ Will’s voice rose, carrying past the non-verbal interruption of Chilton’s look off utter incredulity. “—are behavioral issues that crop up in _anyone_ in solitary confinement.  You can’t just let him reread the same hundred simple books he probably memorized six years ago and fight for his life in the arena once a week and expect him to not act out.  Since I got here, have you had _any_ complaints about him?”

The tick of Chilton’s jaw was answer enough, but Will felt a thick, uncomfortable pleasure in watching him open his mouth and close it, swallow as if he’d had mustard greens rammed into the roof of his mouth. 

“I’m not arguing with your skills, Mr. Graham.  Clearly I believe you possess them or I wouldn’t have asked for you.  You’re quite the topic of conversation in parasapient behavioral circles, you know.  Your peculiar talents are undeniable but no one quite knows how you do it.” 

“I’ve written some books that go into pretty decent detail.  You might find some clues there.”  Or, at least, as much detail as he could.  The average reader couldn’t have his insight; he knew that.  Whatever it was in his mind that let him feel so keenly, enough to reconstruct the past and glimpse possible future outcomes, not everyone had it.  He wasn’t sure how he did that much himself, either, but his particular peculiarities weren’t all Chilton was referring to.  Will didn’t doubt that much for a second.  His theories in and of themselves would be incomprehensible to most behaviorists—the concept of paraspaient emotion was too much a fairy tale.  In contrast, in his own developing mind, his old theories had begun to seem increasingly tame. 

“Yes, well.  That’s for the masses.  You do well writing it on their level, too; they eat the sentimental stories in between the science up.  Those of us in the scientific community just wish you’d share the _real_ secret, but I suppose it’s yours to keep.”  Chilton’s laugh was high and clear, clearly meant to be conspiratorial.  It fell flat.  He looked irritated by his own failure, absently swatted at the air as if his attempt at camaraderie was a mosquito he could brush away from his ear.   “As for the matter at hand, I did grant you full control of Hannibal, but his prior restrictions—“

“Cannot be maintained; they’re incompatible with my training process.  My methods are working.  When they aren’t, or when you want me off his case, then that’s a different story.”  Unable to resist, Will’s hand slipped higher, stroking up from the nape of Hannibal’s neck, through the heavy, wet strands of his hair.  Once, and again.  He wanted no misunderstanding, here.  Hannibal hadn’t been wrong, before, that he couldn’t talk to Chilton the way he talked to Hannibal, but what he’d said to Hannibal held.  He had no intentions of leaving this job until he finished what he’d come here for, and made sure Hannibal was at the very least stable enough to have a bearable quality of life.  So far as he had any control over anything, he wouldn’t settle for less than that, and he’d fight for more. 

“You’ve not even been here a month.  Hannibal—“

“Has done _nothing_ to warrant alarm when he’s been with a competent handler fully aware of who they were dealing with.  It’s still early, sure, but I took precautions.  You might have noticed we’re the only ones here.”

“It was your name on the schedule that alerted me to the danger you were in.  It’s an odd time for a swim, after dark, and you’ve not yet worked with anyone else.  I knew he had to be here.” 

Until Chilton and his armed guard had arrived, Will hadn’t felt in danger at all.  He breathed deep, full of chlorine and Hannibal and the unwanted scent of Chilton’s overpowering cologne.  Undoubtedly, he wanted to smell strongly of something in front of the parasapients, playing at scent the way a child smears on their mother’s makeup. 

“I’ve taken precautions,” Will said, measured, careful.  A moment ago, he’d been sure his voice had started to rise.  He refused to let it.  “I booked the whole pool, at an hour it wasn’t wanted.  I will work him up in stages only when I’m sure he’s ready for them, but he’ll keep progressing and when he’s doing well enough to pass a temperament test with me handling him, I’ll be submitting a permit to take him out for offsite enrichment.”  With a temperament test, he’d in effect go over Chilton’s head.  Even with Hannibal’s record, he couldn’t deny a handler with the right permit and the right test results the chance to take him out of here for a weekend. 

Hannibal’s hand twitched, his fingers curling so tight for a moment Will could feel his nails.  That wasn’t an offer he’d meant Hannibal to know about just yet, but he couldn’t regret saying it, not when it was true and had spurred the way Chilton was looking at him now, narrowed eyes looking for an angle he wouldn’t find. 

“I’d appreciate the chance to talk to you in my office, Mr. Graham.” 

“Hannibal’s still got at least a half hour, and there’s nothing about his training I won’t discuss in front of him.  Back them off—“  Will nodded to the guards, still standing at an awkward half attention.  One had had his wrist resting on his baton hilt in a way that couldn’t be comfortable for the full duration of the conversation.  The one who’d tried to walk away still had one leg cocked, the toe of his boot resting on the tile.  “—and I can let him swim.  We can talk right here.” 

Compared to holding Hannibal’s gaze, holding Dr. Chilton’s was no effort at all.  He broke easily, though Will wished he’d been able to hear what he said to the guards as he stepped up to pass between them.  It was more complicated than a simple direction, but they retreated, and he stepped forward, and Will put it out of his mind. 

Chilton stopped far enough from the pool that Hannibal would have had to make an impressive lunge to reach his ankles.  The thought crossed Will’s mind that that was a mental image he wished he could share with Hannibal—Chilton flailing at the slick tile, well-earned panic in his eyes—and he dismissed it quick.  There’d be no time for distractions a moment ago, and there wasn’t now, either. 

He did, however, allow himself a small one, just long enough to look down at Hannibal.  He was far too guarded to read, but Will took a moment to cup his cheek anyway, the pad of his thumb tracing against his cheekbone.  “Go on; it’s okay.  Pretend they’re not here.”

The last time he’d said that, in the breeding shed, Hannibal hadn’t eased a bit.  He didn’t this time, either, but there was hesitation in the withdrawal of Hannibal’s hand from his thigh that seemed to have less to do with the guards themselves and more to do with Chilton’s proximity.  With a chance to get further from Chilton offered to him, it could only be his proximity to Will that posed an obstacle. 

Will’s throat tightened, but before he could think too deeply into the possibility Hannibal had pulled from him and disappeared beneath the water, kicking off the wall to swim swiftly out of reach. 

“You know, I’ve heard the Native Americans used to compete to see how many times they could touch a grizzly bear before it killed them.” 

“Did you hear that from a Native American?”  Will’s dry, wry twist couldn’t go unheard, even by this one’s ego.  Internally, he reminded himself that at the end of the day, he wanted to keep his job.  He _needed_ to keep his job, and his reasons had nothing to do needing a livelihood.  He had enough put back to keep him and his dogs for the rest of his life if he had to, and books sales rolled in all the time.  His reason was out on the water, climbing the rope with lean grace to drop in with a splash like he had when they’d first arrived.  Somehow, Will felt he was showing off for Chilton’s benefit with entirely different intent. 

“In any case,” Chilton continued, the fuzz of irritability the only sign Will had spoken.  “My point is, there’s only so many times you can slap a bear before it takes off your head.”

“It’s a good thing, then, that I’m not slapping him.”  Even with wisdom and reminders on his side, his tongue was hard to hold.  It’d given him trouble in elementary school, and hadn’t stopped a day since. 

Dr. Chilton sighed.  “Mr. Graham, I understand you may disapprove of some of our methods.  I knew that when you arrived.  Some of them are unconventional, and I no more have to explain them to you than you have to explain this madness to me.  We don’t have to like each other, but I need to know you can obey this facility’s regulations.” 

“I can, and I did.  I’d marked our hour down as uninterrupted due to potentially dangerous activity, so in fact, technically I wouldn’t be the one in breach of protocol.” 

“Did anyone ever tell you you’d have made a clever lawyer?”

“First teacher I talked my way out of an assignment with.”  And his father, and a few others.  His interests had always lain elsewhere. 

Hannibal dropped into the water again, much quieter, his body streamlined as he slipped into the pool’s center. 

“On a…more personal note,” Chilton said, all carefully veneered geniality.  “I would advise against getting too attached.  I did bring you here to make him profitable, and I do sincerely hope that remains true for some time, but I can’t ignore Mason Verger’s offer.  It’s substantial, and open indefinitely.  He was quite taken with Hannibal when he saw him fight a few months ago.” 

The chill of threat tingled in Will’s throat, wrapping down and down with vine-like precision.  When he breathed, he felt the pull of it in his shoulders, his chest, down deep inside in places he couldn’t name.  As smooth as the cut of ice.  In the center of the pool, Hannibal treaded water, looking up the rope like he was measuring distance.  Considering. 

“I’m surprised you allow him to come here, after the court case.  I’d think you’d want to avoid any…overt association.”  Will could hear the thickness in his own tone, a shield tugged over any hint of nervous scratch.  He could only hope Dr. Chilton couldn’t. 

“If he hadn’t been cleared, it’d be a different matter, but he was and besides, you and I both know he’s unlikely to ever face a case he’ll lose.  The name of Verger still holds a good deal of respect.”

“And a good deal more cash.”  Will swallowed, a dull ringing needling at his ears.  “Black market sales, cruelty, trafficking and bestiality.  That last one seems a strange charge, doesn’t it?  I mean, it could apply if you take into consideration the kind of beast it would take to do to immature pups half of—“

“No doubt you’ve read Freddie Lounds sensational account, but I testified at his trial, Will.”  The use of his name grated across Will’s skin like rusty metal, sharp and flaking, too much left behind to dirty the wounds.  “It was all a misunderstanding.  He was testing them for sexual maturity.  Really, of people in all disciplines I would think you would understand—“

“That’s not how you test for sexual maturity.  When it’s reached, it’s apparent.  It’s painfully obvious.  You don’t go looking for it, and you sure as hell don’t—“  He had, in fact, read Freddie Lounds’s article, and it swam now behind his eyes, made far too real by an imagination always in overdrive.  Will shook his head, grim and quick, unwilling to go further, there.  If he did, he’d say too much.  “I’m sure the rest of it was a misunderstanding, too.  He didn’t _actually_ sell any body parts as meat, he just kept them in a deep freezer.” 

“Like any other breeder, he was within his legal rights to cull individuals not up to his standards.  What he does with their remains as long as he doesn’t sell them expressly for consumption is no one’s business but his.  It was all a drummed up witch hunt; you know how easy it is to stir the masses with a sad story and a few pictures on the news.” 

The vise of chill talk of Mason Verger had brought to him felt so tight around his shoulders he would have sworn he could feel it cutting in, reaching bone.  He hadn’t wanted to believe that Barney’s warning was being seriously considered, that even _this_ man would find that abomination a viable alternative.  Belatedly, he noticed that his heart was wild with fear, thrumming hard, though he’d managed to keep his breath even. 

It would do Hannibal no good to lose his head. 

“Hannibal’s got another twenty years as a stud in him, easily.”  Impressed at the calm in his voice, Will felt bolstered, able to tear his eyes away from Hannibal still hovering in the water like some aquatic hummingbird and look up at Chilton.  He was fairly sure he even managed it without overt venom.  “If you look at the money he’d make you over that time as a stud and the children he could father that may go on to bring this place into an even more prestigious standing…only a fool would throw that away for a quick lump sum.” 

Chilton tilted his head, his sound of musing carrying oddly with its unpleasant tone up and out, discordant somehow as it bounced back from the tile.  “I suppose that’s up to the results of your work, Mr. Graham, isn’t it?” 

\-----

Though Chilton had gone, and taken the oppressive air of his presence with him, Hannibal still got out of the pool in silence.  He’d been dead silent since Chilton had come in, as quickly and fully as if his vocal cords had been clipped.  Either he’d been watching to see how Will dealt with him, or Chilton had managed to instill a level of respect for past consequences that could pass for fear.  Pass for it, or inspire it.  He didn’t suspect Zeller had used the phrase _beaten to within an inch of his life_ lightly. 

Will tugged a thick towel off the rack, impulsively keeping it rather than handing it over as he’d intended.   It was more settling to reach up and tousle with smooth, gentle rubs at Hannibal’s hair, far more gratifying to feel Hannibal lean into him after only the barest hesitation.  Will tugged the towel along a lock of hair that hung down near his eyes, squeezing water, letting the fabric creep lower and lower toward Hannibal’s eyes until they both reached to push it up. 

When their eyes met, Will smiled.  It didn’t feel as difficult as he’d have thought a moment ago it would be.  “I told you I’d take responsibility.  How’d I do?”

“I’m afraid that’s still under review,”  Hannibal said, though there was far too much good humor in the hands that took the towel from Will for him to be believed.  Still, there was something straining at him just under the surface.  Will could see it, so he held his tongue and waited for it, watching Hannibal dry his face, then his chest, then his face again.  “Did you mean what you said to him, or was it merely a dig at his authority?”

“You’ll have to be more specific; I’d hope I made quite a few digs at his authority.” 

Having expected at least a little laugh for that, he couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed when Hannibal didn’t.  He studied the weave of the towel, pressed the thick fabric between his fingers.  “You told him you wanted to take me somewhere offsite.  An enrichment activity.  Were you posturing higher than you intend to reach, to make my privileges seem less and get them back?”

Will’s stomach burned, too full to bear of yearning for the mist thin hope bearing up Hannibal’s words.  The question was so fragile he hadn’t even looked at Will to ask it—he’d already busied himself with drying his legs and between them, feigning an air of being thoroughly distracted and absorbed.  An attempt, no doubt, at giving Will a moment to find a polite refusal, and himself a moment to recenter his priorities, to remind himself what was and wasn’t possible. 

“I wouldn’t taunt you with that, Hannibal.  It’s too big.  I said I wanted it because I have every intention of getting you out of here and letting you spend a few weekends out at my house.”  If the specter of Mason Verger wasn’t still clinging to his skin like ice and oil, the naked shock in Hannibal’s eyes would have washed Chilton’s visit away entirely.  “You need a chance to be in a different environment.  You can read outside, come fishing with me.  I’ve got six dogs, though, so—“

“I like dogs.”  Hannibal cleared his throat, looked almost surprised at his own interruption.  “There was a hunting pack, on the Lecter estate.  Foxhounds.  Some of the parasapients worked with them to bring down game.  I believe my father may have been one of them.” 

“They don’t hunt anything but scraps from under the table and roadkill off the highway if they get too far from me, but they’re good.  You’ll like them.” 

Finished, Hannibal folded the towel carefully before placing it in the bin with the others that had been used, tossed in all haphazard and bunched.  “We were trained extensively against desertion when the French military took me from the orphanage.  It was quite effective.  I won’t run from you.” 

As they started out into the night, Will tried his best not to imagine how they’d taught freshly mature parasapients not to desert so thoroughly Hannibal sounded unequivocally certain he wouldn’t consider it decades later.  There was no fitting answer he’d want to envision. 

Instead, he nudged at Hannibal’s arm with the chain of the leash, light and teasing.  “If you were going to run, you’d tell me you wouldn’t.  No one in their right mind would admit otherwise.”

“And yet, I’m still telling the truth.  I would no more run from you there than I could here, now.  All other considerations aside, practically I’d have nothing to gain and much to lose.” 

“We’re still not there yet, Hannibal,” Will reminded, though it pleased him to see that Hannibal looked neither discouraged nor surprised.  The initial shock he’d had in the aquatic center had melded into something warmer, still calculating, but more in the way Will’d counted birthday money as a kid than the way he’d counted days until summer.  Like a reward already won. 

Will slowed his pace to lengthen their walk, shifted until his shoulder just brushed Hannibal’s, providing a point of contact.  “What do you think of your new book, so far?”

“It’s difficult, in places.  There are cultural and historical references I don’t understand, but Victor Hugo seems to do his best to explain a great deal.  I’m enjoying it very much.”  It wasn’t the same softness he’d had when he’d let his guard down enough to talk about his family, but it was warm, and real, and Will wanted to keep it, to let Hannibal talk with such fond interest until he lost his voice.  “I find Valjean interesting.” 

“I thought you might.” 

“I can’t help but think Hugo made a mistake.” 

Will’s eyebrows rose, though he quickly strangled the urge to laugh at his newly minted student of literature, already altering the classics.  “Do you?  Where’d he go wrong?” 

Hannibal’s low noise of frustration was as unexpected as his critique had been, a betrayal of emotion in itself though the turn of Hannibal’s head cemented it.  Whatever it was he’d found wrong, he meant it, sincerely.  Will had thought the trials of a man unjustly imprisoned might appeal to him; he hadn’t imagined Hannibal might see a different angle, attach himself to an unintended variable. 

“His sister’s son,” Hannibal said, clear and solid, as if the statement alone should make his point.  When Will only waited, he kept going.  “He gave up his freedom to feed this boy.  He was family; he loved him.   Why would he serve 19 years of his life for someone if he had no intention of going to him the moment he was free?  If he didn’t matter, why not let him starve?  And if he did, why let him go?” 

There was more here than bread and prison sentences and literary critique—more even than the precious glimpse it gave him into Hannibal’s mind.  Beyond all that, there was a piece of history, buried deep.  There was too much vehemence in Hannibal’s voice, too much honest wondering.  He’d been giving this question a lot of thought. 

Will intended to tread carefully. 

“Maybe he thought his nephew was better off without him?”  It wasn’t hard to imagine, for Will, the thought of a man letting go of someone he loved with only the hope in his mind that somewhere else, they would shine.   “Maybe he’d written to him in prison, knew he was stable and wouldn’t be helped by knowing an ex-con.” 

“Better off without someone who cared enough for him to give up his right to his own life?  He couldn’t be.”  There was such endearing, painfully stubborn certainty there that Will couldn’t argue. 

Up ahead, Hannibal’s building was approaching, a conglomeration of square lights in the dark only distinguishable from the others by its pattern. 

“You’ve known love, Hannibal.  You’d have to, to have such a high opinion of it.”

“It’s rare.  Rarity inspires high opinion, doesn’t it?” 

“Sometimes.  Sometimes it inspires ridicule.  Disbelief.  That it inspires reverence in you is telling.” 

“And what does it inspire in you?”  The question was soft as breath, Hannibal’s eyes cutting to him almost furtively, if they hadn’t continued to watch so closely. 

Will ducked his head, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he raked his fingers through his hair against the grain.  “Love, or rarity?”  His throat ached oddly, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to wait for clarification.  “I mean, I guess it’s the same for both.  The world tries to crush them.  Stamp them out.  I just like to see them survive, but if you ask around I’m considered rare myself, so—“  his shrug shifted his shoulder against Hannibal’s, solid and strong, not pressing into the contact but not moving away.  “Can’t say I’m unbiased.  I’m not done yet.  Still got too much work to do to be stamped out before I’m done.” 

“Love, to you, is more protection than devotion?”

Will’s throat worked against nothing.  His hand lifted, driven by increasingly familiar habit to rub at the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  The contact helped unstick his throat.  “It’s no one thing, Hannibal.  Love doesn’t have a simple definition.  Not for me, or for you.” 

Behind the wrinkles at the corners of Hannibal’s eyes Will could see his thoughts turning, considering, classifying.  Assimilating feelings he knew, and knowledge he hadn’t, reaching for a better understanding of himself. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 You are all utterly incredible and I adore you. I can't tell you how much all your comments mean to me, but please know they /make my day/ and I'm working my way through responding to every one, :) 
> 
> Also, as some like...general notes-
> 
> -This is looking like it will probably come out at around 48 chapters or so, so we're in for a long ride here, XD  
> -There is still a chance there'll end up being 3 chapters this week. Today was not a good day, though, so we'll see. x.x  
> -There are so many points in this journey I'm excited for you guys to see, and to read your perspectives on. SO MANY. And yet, some of them have gotten moved around because these two won't friggin shut up, lmao Story of my life with writing hannigram...they never shut up. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you <3

When Will stepped inside, Hannibal wasn't reading.  Will had become so accustomed to the sight of him cocooned under his blanket with a book propped up that the lack of it was jarring, enough to feel like cause for concern.  Once he'd taken a proper look, he could tell he wasn't wrong.  

Hannibal sat at the table with his arm outstretched, presumably to have better light, prodding at the end of a short line of stitches on his arm.  The skin around the point he was worrying at had already gone an angry shade of red, stark against the blue-black dark of his stitches. 

Torn between worry and exasperation, Will shrugged the bag he'd carried over his shoulder down to the floor, already moving forward before it had even finished settling. "Hey, stop that." 

Hannibal's answering growl was so soft the sound of his dinner tray and Will's fast food sack being half tossed onto the table almost covered it entirely, but Will had good ears.  Excellent hearing, but little fear.  Even if Hannibal had properly snarled he wasn't sure at this point he'd have heeded it—that   probably wasn't wise and might be worth examining later, but for the moment he couldn't be bothered.  The wound looked more irritated up close, and there was no dangerous readiness in Hannibal's posture, only rounded shoulders and quick, stiff fingered jabs that betrayed petulance underpinned by anger directed inward. 

"Come on; cut it out."  Will's hand closed around his wrist, a firm squeeze though he didn't try to jerk his hand back, only to hold him.  Will had moved so close he ended up sitting on the table, the vantage point helping him close the distance between them a little more.  Hannibal's finger jabbed at the last stitch again, javelin direct, and Will gave up on his wrist to tangle his fingers with Hannibal's, immobilizing as he dipped his head.  "Hannibal, hey, look at me." 

Hannibal squeezed until it hurt, Will’s knuckles aching.  Nameless, irritating panic began to bubble up in Will's stomach, goading his breath until it was quick and shallow.  By the time the sensation equalized, he was sure that if it had been liquid it would have come to a sloshing rest midway through his chest, slopping back and forth between the two of them like a wave contained, licking at Will's lungs.  Hannibal had been struggling alone to contain it, and as well as his own awareness of its senselessness.  Whether the distress, its pointlessness, or his inability to fully quell it had troubled him the most Will wasn't sure, but Will held onto him fiercely and breathed with him until his fingers started to tingle from the force.  Near numbness replaced pain, and their breath began to steady in tandem. 

Only then did Hannibal properly look at him, something still wild and hunted in his eyes like he'd been taken somewhere else and dropped to wander in the unfamiliar, dazed and off balance.  His grip loosened, and Will's tightened, clumsy with lack to feeling.  He didn't dare let him go.

Even slightly fumbling as it was, his grip drew Hannibal's eyes down.   He blinked, slowly enough that Will had thought for a moment his eyes were going to stay closed. 

Will couldn't hold his concern any longer than that.  "Do you want to tell me what happened?" 

Hannibal's fingers tugged at his, a softly frustrated noise blowing out on his breath when Will didn't let him go.  He wasn't trying very hard to pull away. 

"The last stitch,” Hannibal murmured, his chin tipped toward his wound.  He moved to reach toward it with light enough pressure that Will let him go, relieved when Hannibal’s fingers came to rest on either side of the wound rather than troubling it again.  “It’s not even.  It’s much larger, and I can feel it more underneath the skin.  Dr. Price’s work is more precise; I should have waited—“  Hannibal breathed in sharply, drawing up with tension that eased when Will took his hand again.  This time, Hannibal’s fingers curled around his with feather-light care.  “It’s not important.”

Will had half a dozen questions, at least.  He’d known Hannibal had practice in the arena today, but Barney had been taking him every week for years.  It was, to this point, an aspect of Hannibal’s life—and Barney’s—that he hadn’t seen fit to interfere in, or so his answer had been when Barney had asked two weeks ago if he’d like to take him.  Deep down, the truth felt far more complicated.  He had no trouble taking Hannibal and letting him run an obstacle course in an empty arena, or walking him outdoors.  Taking him swimming. 

Watching him mimic the struggle to kill or be killed in supposedly safe practice trials of the kind that had killed Abernis…

He’d never enjoyed combat training at the FBI, either, and after Anthony he’d liked it even less. 

Still, it was an aversion he’d likely need to get over.  Whatever had happened today he should have been there, at least should have been _called_ after it had.  All things considered the wound was small and looked fairly clean, but Hannibal was enough his that he had a right to know. 

That much he could settle with Zeller, but the matter of what had left Hannibal agitated and half present, lost and entirely capable of hurting himself…that was more pressing. 

The further Hannibal calmed, the more he looked ashamed.  There was even a touch of color to his high cheeks, his head tilted father away from Will than it had been when they’d first met.  He’d hoped that waiting might give Hannibal a chance to continue, but seeing him try to swallow around indignity he couldn’t stomach was too much for Will to wait out. 

“It happens to people too, you know,” He said, soft, barely above a whisper.  Hannibal’s fingers twitched around his.  “Soldiers, prisoners.  Anyone who’s lived through something they shouldn’t have had to face.  Sometimes there’s not an external reason at all.  If it’s not trauma it’s all…brain chemistry.  At the end of the day we’re all just a mess of biological systems.  Most of the time they work well; sometimes they don’t.” 

Hannibal swallowed, his left arm flexing.  The stitches shifted over muscle, pulling in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, though his breath didn’t so much as change.  “Neurons.  Communication of thought.” 

“That’s right.” 

“I remember a little, from the vet school.”  Hannibal’s hand slipped from his to shift his hair away from his eyes.  The loss of that point of connection wasn’t pleasant.  Will rested his hand against Hannibal’s arm just below the wound to alleviate it.  “Does it ever happen to you?”  Hannibal’s eyes found his, steadier now, less searching.  “A failure to communicate within your own mind?” 

“Sometimes, yeah.”  More often when he was younger, in school and seeing much he’d like to forget.  With his free hand, he pressed the nail of his thumb against the corner of his eye, for focus.  For a moment, his eyes closed under the effort of thinking without fully recalling.  Caging his demons.  “I haven’t slept well in years.  I have nightmares.  Sometimes they’re worse than others.” 

“So do I.”  Hannibal’s tone matched his, a cathedral hush. 

It wasn’t news, not when Barney had warned him that Hannibal would occasionally wake up screaming, but hearing about it from Hannibal would be more than even she had gotten.  According to all she’d told Will, she’d never been able to get a word out of him that wasn’t an apology for disturbing her, or quiet thanks for bringing him a cold cloth for his face, letting him rest a moment against her shoulder. 

Will stroked his thumb against Hannibal’s arm, waiting.   

“They’re always the same, but I can only ever remember pieces of them, no matter how hard or long I try.” The layer of exasperation across his words was close to the frustration Will had felt in him when he’d arrived—anger at his own perceived shortcomings, at the pieces of his mind and body he couldn’t direct.  He had control over so little in his life.  Losing control of the pieces that _should_ have been wholly his must have seemed a horrible betrayal.  “Even so it takes a while to come out of them.  It’s usually some time before I feel like myself again.  I fell asleep after I came back from the clinic.  I’d barely noticed the discrepancy in the stiches when Dr. Zeller did them, but after…” 

“You woke up, and it was all you could notice.” 

Hannibal nodded, short and tight.  “My arm had hurt in the dream, too.  It was…an ill-timed coincidence.  I didn’t intend for you—“

“I’m glad I got here when I did.”  To stop him, and to have the opportunity to help him understand.  To tell him as no one else had clearly ever seen fit to do that he wasn’t alone. 

Hannibal’s eyes tracked over Will’s bag at the door to the tray and sack on the table as if he was noticing them for the first time, his forehead slightly furrowed.  “We had no training session today.  I didn’t expect company.” 

“I know.  I thought it might be nice to have dinner together.  Maybe do a little test of your training afterward if you felt up to it.”  He’d been fairly sure Hannibal wouldn’t object to a training session with no strings attached—no teasing, no trip to the lab.  No probe.  Just the two of them, getting a feel for how Hannibal had progressed.  Now, with the state of his mind, Will was less sure it’d be welcome. 

The desire to focus on putting Hannibal at ease was far too great for that realization to be more than fleetingly disappointing. 

“And now your dinner’s getting cold.”  It was more than plain in both Hannibal’s words and his tone that he was trying hard to stay angry at himself, still, but it was harder to maintain when Will’s arrival plainly pleased him.  Since their second week together, Will couldn’t remember a time when his arrival _hadn’t_ pleased him.  Grim as he’d been when Will came in, the beginnings of a smile pulled at his lips.  “I don’t have another chair.  You’ll have to take this one.” 

Will’s laughter was a little hoarse, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind it, his head tilting up at the sound as if to savor the trickle of it into his ear.   “I’m not going to take your chair, Hannibal.  This is your room; I’ll sit on the table.  On the floor, if that’d be better.” 

Hannibal’s hand covered Will’s, pressing it against his arm as if Will had already tried to pull away.  “Stay, please.  The table is fine.” 

“Even if it is, I still have to see to your arm first.  I’ve got some supplies in my bag; I can—“

“Zeller said it’s not to be washed for 48 hours.”

“Pretty sure he also would have said _don’t poke it until it bleeds and looks infected_ , too.”  Will kept his tone light, his fondness clear and thick as he reached to smooth Hannibal’s hair.  Now that he knew he’d been sleeping, it did look a little more mussed than normal, a little tangled in places beneath his fingertips.  “He’ll be gone for the day by the time we get to the clinic if he isn’t already.  We’ll have to go see him tomorrow morning, but I guess I’ll hold off washing it until then.  I might cover it before I leave, though.”

“It won’t be necessary.”  A touch of stiffness returned, there, and Will wished he hadn’t said it.  The last thing he wanted to do was make Hannibal feel…

The only comparison that came to mind was the image of Anansi with an e-collar on his head, trying valiantly to get at the IV line he’d already ripped out once from his other leg.  The parallel didn’t sit well in his stomach, but the reason was harder to pin—was it the uncomfortable reminder that his mind on some level still classed Hannibal as more animal than man, or the inherent truth of the touch of something animal in man? 

Panic was universal.  A terrified man could claw his own eyes out to chase a phantom itch in his brain; a terrified rabbit could break their own spine to try and escape a trap.  No one was immune to mistakes of biology, breakdowns in sensible neurological communication.  In that respect, the field was level.  What, if anything, that meant was far harder to determine, and nothing Will wanted to think about. 

He was with Hannibal.  If he couldn’t stay in the moment with him, later he’d wish he had. 

Hannibal uncovered his tray to expose a slab of raw ribs, with cups alongside it containing cooked carrots and some form of corn relish.  Absolutely none of it looked remotely appetizing.  The hollow portion of the tray underneath the meat clinked and sloshed as Hannibal moved it, proof that the ice put there to keep the meat good and chill had started to thaw some time ago.

Will grimaced, paused in unrolling the top of his sack.  "I'm sorry; I didn't even think to check how long it'd been sitting out.  If it's too warm-"

"It's perfectly fine.  So long as it hasn't set long enough to begin to spoil I honestly prefer warm.  It doesn't come out of the cow refrigerated."

Will laughed, pleased more by Hannibal's little smile at his own wit than the morbid humor itself.  The bun on his Krystals had gone soggy with the wait, but they were never overly dry to begin with.  His first bite had too much onion, his second too much pickle.  Will set the little burger down to fish in the bag for his fries.

"And have you ever had it like that?  Straight out of the..."  Will gestured with a fry before he ate it, a vague motion meant to indicate something large, and living.   "Source." 

Hannibal separated a bone and stripped meat from it with delicate grace and precision, incongruous with blood seeping out around his fingers, red showing in the marrow.  The thought crossed Will's mind that he'd never managed to look that dignified eating ribs—no one did.  There was always sauce everywhere, fingers and faces as coated as if they’d made a kill that bled barbecue. 

After he swallowed, he answered, the bone still held primly between his fingers.    “When I was very small.  Those who hunted with the foxhounds were sometimes permitted to bring something back to the kennel.  We had rabbit, and fox, and once a small deer.  More often than not, we had whatever cook provided us.  He was good at his job, and indulgent.  Our food was often no different than the human Lecter’s themselves.”

As when he’d mentioned the estate before, there was a certain wistful fondness to his voice when he spoke of the place.  An almost careful appreciation, as if he both recalled it well and tread gently around its memory, like a sealed tomb. 

Will took up another square burger.  “I thought you might have.  Most parasapients I’ve met prefer cooked meat.” 

“Most parasapients you’ve met have never had to dine here.”  Hannibal’s reply came without a second’s hesitation, only pausing afterward to separate another strip of meet from the bone.  His teeth sheered it off impeccably cleanly.  “Taking my meat raw gives them minimal chance to ruin it.  Since I can digest it, it’s preferable to their attempts at making food appetizing.  If you’d like an example, try one of the carrots.” 

Will cast his eye to the cup, where sliced carrots so pale they looked near yellow lay seeping in orange water.  Bits of what was probably supposed to be basil dotted the carrots like pox.  “I’d rather not, thanks.”

“I’d have been concerned if you’d been interested.”  Hannibal’s humor reached his eyes, a sparkle that seemed to dance a little brighter as he studied the hamburger Will was eating.  “Although…well, it’s not for me to say.  It might smell better, to you.” 

Will couldn’t help but laugh behind the hand that still held half his burger, cuffing Hannibal so lightly with the other against his shoulder that he barely made contact.  “Hey, now, I grew up eating this stuff.  When my dad was a kid, you could get 12 Krystals for less than a dollar.” 

“Unheard of now, I would assume?”

“Completely, and a hell of a break if you’re poor.” 

“And you no longer are,”  Hannibal continued smoothly, detaching a second rib as he spoke.  “Barney can’t be the only one who has all your books.  But they remind you of your father?” 

Will shrugged, wiped his hands on a too thin napkin.  They were greasy, like fair food.  “I guess.  Eating in the back of the truck on a blanket, tossing a bite to the dogs.  I didn’t know they couldn’t have onions back then; it’s a miracle no one died.  Mostly I guess it’s an acquired taste.”  Will tapped the next box on the table to settle the contents of the burger, his eyes catching Hannibal’s under the fringe of his curls.  “I’d offer you this one but I’m guessing it smells too terrible to risk?” 

“I’m not sure it’s a taste I can acquire.  My sense of smell _is_ a good deal better than yours.” 

“Not sure that’s the problem, Hannibal.  I think you might just be picky.” Unusual, given his circumstances, but oddly endearing all the same.  “Tell you what, I’ll cook you some trout sometime soon, okay?  You’ll like it.”

“I’d appreciate it very much.  I don’t think I’ve ever had trout.” 

They slipped into companionable silence, and for a time ate that way, forearms brushing here and there in a way that was entirely coincidental on the surface, and felt less so.  The contact was easy, as was the silence, easier even than he’d experienced with other parasapients he’d worked with, and he’d never had trouble bonding.  Trouble letting go, that he’d had in spades.  That he already felt closer to this one than any of the others should have frightened him, in part, or given him trepidation for his eventual departure at the least, but even though the training he put Hannibal through every day was intended to prepare him for Will’s eventual absence, it all seemed a long ways away.  The time they’d have together stretched out like a tunnel before him, utterly welcoming, drawing him deeper into a labyrinth he wanted only to lose himself in. 

Eventually, finished but for a handful of straggler fries, Will’s hand found its way again to the patch of skin near Hannibal’s stitches, his fingertips light and searching.  Near the surgical thread itself, the skin felt too puffy to the touch, too sensitive.  Hannibal held still, and let him feel, and Will found his mind tripping backwards.

The arena, faced off for practice.  Another alpha, this time—the cut was on the back of his arm, like it had been forced up and out by someone stronger, a wider chest, thicker arms.  Hannibal had wounded them first, undoubtedly, and they struck back.  Fierce, determined if not to gain ground then at least not to lose it.  To keep clear of the teeth they’d been so warned about, teeth that killed.  They pushed back, arms wide, and Hannibal—

Something startled him, jarred him.  With his balance taken, he’d fall heavy enough on the arm against an obstacle to cut deep.  It hurt, but the shock of it was worse than the pain, the moment of lapse. 

Will exhaled slowly, drew his fingers back and breathed in.  He smelled blood, cold and stale, and reminded himself it was the ribs, not Hannibal.  Not Hannibal. 

Still, he had to ask. 

“Can we talk about what happened to your arm, and why Zeller didn’t call me?” 

Down to the last of his ribs, Hannibal left his single strip of meat remaining, and began to eat the surely cold carrots.  Carefully, mechanically.  Detached from every bite but eating it, like a wolf storing up calories for later.  Like a child who’d known hunger. 

“For the first part, there’s nothing to talk about it.  I was almost pinned, and the angle was off.  Barney said I still would have won if the buyers had been watching, but I’d lose points for not stopping when called down.  I regained the upper hand before I disengaged.  As they weren’t watching, it seems irrelevant.  It was only practice.” 

To an extent he wasn’t wrong, but he also wasn’t entirely right, either.  Heritable traits were recorded for public record at the demonstrations buyers attended, but they could be recorded by a breeder at any time, to keep track of their breeding pool.  There were aspects, like scrotal size, that had been determined definitively to have high heritability and some relation to fertility, while others such as aggression and obedience were far more hotly debated.  Both traits had been determined heritable, able to be passed with some degree of regularity to offspring, but just how much of that transfer was truly genetics and how much lie in upbringing remained to be seen, in Will’s opinion.

Regardless, Hannibal would be judged for his results.  The better his scores, the better his prospects as a stud.  It wasn’t Will’s area of specialty, but he’d have to start being present for it, for both their sakes.  Hannibal would listen to him; he became more sure of it every day. 

Whether it would have been easier or more difficult to stomach if Hannibal had been hurt with him there to direct him remained to be seen.

Will’s thumb stroked a little too close to the last stitch Hannibal had taken exception to, felt the skin grow just a touch a warmer where it had been disturbed.  “And the second, about Zeller?”

Hannibal’s noise was noncommittal, and might have been written off as distaste at his mouthful of corn relish if Will hadn’t just asked him a question.  He swallowed slowly.  “I asked him not to trouble you.  As he knows you at least a little, it was easy enough to convince him you’d prefer he took my judgment since it wasn’t serious.”  Hannibal turned his fork over in his hands, his fingers feeling out the edges with something akin to nervous energy.  “You mentioned taking half the dogs to the vet, on your day off.  I assumed it was today.”

Knowing the root of his deception probably shouldn’t have loosened anything in Will’s chest, but it did.  Tension drained out of his stomach as if it had been smoothed out by and iron, hot and warm, its impression still lingering.  His fingers found the inside of Hannibal’s wrist and curled around it, too loose to be taking his pulse. 

“It was,” he confirmed, his grip twitching a little tighter when Hannibal didn’t immediately look at him.  “Appointments can be rescheduled, Hannibal.  If something happens to you, I need to be here.  End of story.” 

“But you aren’t angry.”  It wasn’t a question, ostensibly, but it held weight. 

Will reached to stroke his hair until Hannibal tilted toward him, and he could cup Hannibal’s jaw in the palm of his hand.  His hair still looked disheveled, and for a moment the urge to kiss the top of his head out of sheer fondness struggled in his throat. 

Hannibal hadn’t finished his dinner.  It wasn’t the time. 

“No,”  Will said, a little hoarse, a little too quiet.  He cleared his throat.  “No, I’m not angry, but I don’t want it to happen again.  I won’t talk to Zeller about it—“ as the words came out, they shocked even himself.  He’d intended to, fully, but somehow hearing Hannibal’s fragile consideration had jarred him with the sensation that it would feel like going over Hannibal’s head.  He could do that—in other ways he did it all the time—but it didn’t feel right, here, and his feelings chose for him.  “—but tell him to call me next time, okay?  I don’t care where I am.” 

“I will.”  Unlike the first time he’d suspected he felt the brush of Hannibal’s tongue, after his first collection, there could be no doubt that when he turned his head to nuzzle Will’s palm it darted out.  A soft lap, warm, almost dry.  So quick it was there and gone, a slip of affection too slight to comment on.

Slight, and yet Will felt as if his gut had been forcibly shaken, rough like the whipping crack of a rope in a dog’s mouth.  Half conscious, his middle finger rubbed against the spot on his palm where Hannibal’s tongue had been, felt the barest patch of damp. 

As he tried to untangle the sudden, half uncomfortable white noise of his mind, Hannibal stripped his last rib, laid the bone down in an even row alongside the others.  Finished, he covered the tray, and folded his hands under his chin before looking up at Will. 

“You mentioned a training exercise, if I feel up to it.  I do.  What did you have in mind?”  

With his mind so tangled, the prospect suddenly sounded far more riddled with subtle strings than Will had intended.  He was sure he could feel them already, like piano wire around his throat, his wrists, binding him to hooks under Hannibal’s skin, rooted to the warmth in his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...if you wanna see what a set of cattle heritable traits looks like, you can go here-
> 
> https://www.pubs.ext.vt.edu/404/404-084/404-084.html
> 
> No, I don't remember how to calculate jack shit with any of that. It's been a few years, XD


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did succeed in getting bonus third chapter ready for you, <3 Enjoy :)

Will swallowed, his head shaking once in token denial.  “We don’t have to; you’ve had a hell of a day.” 

“Will it be unpleasant?”  Hannibal asked, something a little bemused in the tilt of his words, his chin still resting easily on his folded hands.  

“No, no of course it—no.  I wouldn’t suggest anything difficult for a day we’d normally not have a session.  I just thought we might test how well you’re coming along with the pressure points training, no teasing, no collection.”  

Hannibal hummed, soft, close to laughter.  His left arm stretched out along the table to let his chin rest in his palm, but Will’s eyes were drawn to the stitches.  There were four of them, a good 2 inch long gash, if not longer.  3, more likely.  Hannibal hadn’t shown any sign of pain.    


“No teasing, beyond the training exercise itself, I’m to assume?  I’m not opposed; I feel well enough, but if there’s to be no collection—“ 

“There’s no need for collection, but that doesn’t mean I won’t let you finish.  This would be an exercise, not a punishment.”  A reward, of sorts.  It had almost a month now the two of them had been working together, and Hannibal had performed impeccably.  Now, he could have a chance to gauge how the groundwork he was laying was developing, and give Hannibal something of a reward in the process.  Pleasure unmarred by process.  

“I may be wrong,” Hannibal said, in a tone of such clear resonance it was perfectly clear he was positive he wasn’t.  “But isn’t what you’re proposing against Chilton’s regulations?  No release unless it’s for collection?  I’ve heard him explain to many who’ve toured the facility that the process makes the alphas…ask for it.”  There was such chilled, barbed disdain beneath the surface with that turn of phrase that Will felt cut through with it, his breath seized up short.  

“Hannibal—“ 

“Don’t trouble yourself, Will; we aren’t talking about you.  We were discussing Dr. Chilton.”  The blaze of heat in Hannibal’s eyes was strong enough to sear him when their eyes met, all the more odd for how well the color was hidden.  They were wide and dark, and though Will could feel the padding of Hannibal’s substantial fondness toward him blunting all sharp edges, he could, too, feel the force of the spear of anger behind it, old and well-tended, tempered in fear and outrage and hurt. 

Will swallowed, an odd pressure squeezing at all his joints from the inside, as if he’d dived too deep.  “It’s not a regulation, it’s his method, and my methods aren’t like his.  I’m not Dr. Chilton.” 

“I’m well aware of that, Will.  Are you?”  

The observation hit Will as firmly as a spear thrown, though even in the moment he knew he felt it far more keenly than Hannibal had intended.  Hannibal was learning him, yes, but for all he’d gleaned he couldn’t possibly yet be sure how deep Will’s doubts ran, how rampant his own thoughts and fears had become.  He didn’t have the benefit of knowledge of Will’s history, his revelations.  His regrets, or his triumphs.  He knew none of it, couldn’t have a full picture, but maybe he didn’t need one.  He’d seen Will’s insecurity thoroughly enough, had a keen enough eye to hit him in a soft spot Will both tried to be aware of and keep a blind eye to.  

The wound throbbed.  Was he aware?  He was, certainly, different from Chilton in a number of ways, but in doing his job as well and as ethically as he could, was he still doing a disservice?  Was it not better, to do what was going to be done badly without him and do it well instead, to make what difference he could inside a system he could no more dismantle by hand than he could change Hannibal’s past?  

Will rubbed his hand over his eyes, and still felt nauseous.  As if the table were too high, enough to give him vertigo.  He sighed, and it felt louder than it could have been.  Everything was amplified.  “I’ll go.  You should rest.  I’ll tell—“ 

Hannibal’s hand closed around his wrist, warm and tight.  “Will, please…that wasn’t for you.” 

“Wasn’t it?  You addressed me that time; you weren’t talking about Chilton.” 

“The anger wasn’t for you.”  When he dared meet them, there was far less seething in the dark behind Hannibal’s eyes.  Far more softness, the genuine damper of regret.  “You haven’t earned it, and you don’t deserve it.  I meant what I said.  You are not Dr. Chilton, or any other man I’ve known.  You’re an anomaly among even the best of them.”  

Will both wanted, and didn’t want, to let that reassurance wash over him.  He held it at arm’s length instead, struggling with the many arms of a rarely glimpsed leviathan to wrap around him and pull him down.  “You haven’t known that many good people.  If I stand out—“

“You’d stand out anywhere.  I’m sure of that.”  Hannibal’s grip loosened, then left entirely, the tips of his fingers trailing down Will’s arm.  It felt more a caress than withdrawal.  “If we’re going to be…friends, as you said you wanted—“

“I do,” Will interjected, rough and tight with the force of wanting it.  Sometimes, it seemed he wanted that even more than he did the work he’d come to do.  He’d began with the intention of sharing Hannibal with the world and already, he felt selfish.  When he was with Hannibal, the desire to maintain and deepen the settling sensation of rightness he felt when they were together was powerful. 

“Then we’ll have to adjust to honesty.  I doubt even you have often received it from my kind, and for obvious reasons I’ve not often given it.  Few have ever given me the impression they wanted it, but you have.  You asked for it, and told me I might not always like your questions.”  Hannibal settled back in his chair, his voice softening and losing none of its strength.  “You should be prepared to not always like my answers.”  

As he had been when Hannibal tested him, Will felt unpleasantly slapped by reality.  A grating reminder of the world and his place in it, of the depth and layers to it that his life inherently removed him from the ability to understand.  He could put himself in Hannibal’s position far better than most could, but at the end of the day he was a human man, born to human parents and raised with human conveniences.  He could envision, and he could feel the choke of fear and confinement weighing down on him when he walked the kennel halls, but he’d never properly lived it.  Even he with all his gifts would forever be at least that critical degree removed. 

Will shifted to sit cross legged on the table, the heels of his boots digging into his thighs.  A wry voice at the back of his mind reminded him he hadn’t even asked if Hannibal would mind his shoes on the table, a nagging note of how much he still worked at putting into practice.  He had offered to sit on the floor, done his best to respect Hannibal’s space.  He was trying. 

“With the nature of my job—“

“As I said, you’ve done nothing to offend me.  If I could search your history and find a list to reproach you with, it’d likely be short.” 

“Yeah, well.  Be that as it may—“ Will brushed his curls back and forced his head up, too in need of watching every facet of Hannibal’s answer to allow himself to withdraw into introspection now.  “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to learn pressure point training, and I didn’t explain too well to you why I do it.  I should have.  It makes it easier to disconnect from the process, and get it over for you quickly if that’s what you want.  Or, to enjoy it without teasing.  Teasing’s not always bad and I’ve known some that even like it, but it can be a stressor, and it’s exhausting.  Taking that out gives you more time in your day, and for you…”  Will’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, suddenly oddly aware of the strain it took for his heart to beat, like the quiver of a muscle stretched beyond endurance from a run, overworked.  “Eventually, when Chilton gets rid of me, you’ll have to work with other people.  If collection’s easy, they’ll have less reason for restraint, less…reason to fool with you at all.” 

“Paving a road for me, with your hands,” Hannibal murmured.  In the tilt of his head, Will could see him considering.  The chosen words of his observation played over again in Will’s mind, leaving him uncomfortably warm, his skin tight.  “Is it for your care you think Dr. Chilton will ultimately reject you?” 

Will tilted his left shoulder, felt the scar tissue from his old injury in Louisiana shift in a way he usually didn’t.  The amplification of sensory input that had so overwhelmed him moments before hadn’t gone, but it had dropped to a duller roar.  “Care, and what comes from it.”  Will’s mouth quirked up, a smile that felt more at home when Hannibal returned it before he’d even spoken again.  “The symptoms of it.” 

“A disease of care, spreading through your actions, with the potential to infect those around you.  Dr. Chilton _would_ see it that way.” 

He would, and too much of the world would agree with him.  Even those who loved their parasapients dearly might rebel against what Will had to say, when he could bring himself to say it.  When he’d come here weeks go he’d told himself he couldn’t be certain of how much Hannibal could comprehend without testing him, but even then it had tasted a lie, if he was honest.  He’d known then, and known again when he’d come in to see Hannibal with his music theory book open in front of him, tearing bits off his breakfast napkin and rolling the strips thin to lay them out into a staff, practicing the placement of notes with strawberry tops. 

Will let his hand rest on Hannibal’s, his thumb tracing the ball of the joint at his wrist.  The last of the vertigo left him, blowing clear like mist.  As if Hannibal were solid ground.  With that point of contact, the words that had to come next seemed much easier.  “I didn’t ask you if you wanted that training when I got here, but I can now.  If you don’t, we’ll go back to your schedule from before.  It’s up to you.” 

Hannibal’s head tilted up toward the fluorescent lights, eyes closed, like he was seeking sun that wasn’t there.  “If you’d asked me when you got here, my answer would have been different.  You called it freedom, and it isn’t, but I find that I enjoy what it _is_ more than I’d have ever expected.  For different reasons than yours, perhaps.” 

Will was tempted, sorely tempted to ask what those reasons were.  His tongue felt oddly pinned to the floor of his mouth. 

“I don’t hate my…job.  I’m better off than some, and I’m better off here than I have been elsewhere.  I miss the vet school, sometimes, for the variety.  I wonder what I would have become in other circumstances, but the variables are too many.  I get angry, and I try to avoid it.  There’s less point in worrying about a future I can’t obtain than there is the future ahead of me, and I don’t concern myself with that at all.  It will be better, or worse.  My control over it is laughable, but I do what I can.  I enjoy what I can.”  His eyes cracked open, a smile that warmed Will down to his bones crinkling at the corners of them.  “I enjoy being surprised by you.  So to answer your question, if you do something I’d like you to stop, I’ll tell you, as I did in our first proper session.  Otherwise, assume you have my consent.  I’m quite content with being under your care and in the spirit of honesty, that’s as much a surprise to me as anything else you’ve managed.” 

“Guess that answers the question of whether this—“  Will intended to gesture between them, but his hand didn’t lift.  It squeezed at Hannibal’s wrist instead, but the point, he had to assume, was communicated.  “—is as…weird for you as it is for me.  I’ve had friends, but not many good ones.  Human or parasapient, I’ve always…I see too much, when I don’t even mean to.  If I’m actively trying…”

“Try, and you see everything.  Risky, when many don’t want to be seen.”  Hannibal sat forward, leaning fully into the table.  His wrist pressed into Will’s hand.  “If we are going to know each other, properly, I expect we’ll continue making each other uncomfortable, at times.  Unless we abandon honesty for strict civility, I don’t think there’s another way.” 

“I don’t want to be civil with you, Hannibal.” 

“Nor do I want you to be.  I prefer you exactly as you are.”  Hannibal’s arm turned, exposing his palm.  Traditionally, a gesture of submission, acceptance.  Will pressed his own against it, and breathed deep when Hannibal’s fingers curled lightly against the back of his hand.  “I’ve met no one else I would rather be uncomfortable with.”  It could have been an insult, if it weren’t so full of humor, a level of fond regard that almost reached good cheer.  The anger and contemplation that had risen in him discussing Chilton was gone.  Part of Will hoped his own honesty had helped it along, but he wouldn’t take the credit, not when their conversation had let his brain feeling as if the moment he left Hannibal’s presence it’d be unmoored, lost in a sea of memory and feeling and doubt. 

Hannibal slipped his arm free and stood, stretching to his full height.  The languorous pull of muscle under skin reminded Will strongly of a big cat, lithe and lean, at home in his skin.  His cock was soft, for the moment, but there was interest in his eyes, a spark usually only seen before he scented the air for an omega. 

“How does my test begin?” 

Will’s huff of laughter gave him a moment to flex his hands, gather himself and slide from the table.  “It’s not a difficult test; it probably won’t even take long.  You can face the wall, or a bookshelf.  Something you can lean your hands on.  Don’t try to think about getting ready, though; just think about anything you’d like.” 

“Anything I’d like, so long as it isn’t breeding.” 

“You’ll be thinking about that soon enough.” 

Hannibal pressed his hands to the bookshelf, his head hanging a little between his arms.  The tension in his shoulders looked more like anticipation than fear or stress, like the coil of a predator preparing to pounce. 

Approaching from behind, Will stroked smoothly down his flank, a long, even caress.  The noise that escaped Hannibal was small and startled, his hands clenching against the shelf so smooth and quick his knuckles went white all at once.  Moving in closer, Will could see that his cock had indeed responded, likely with a brisk jerk that had left it as it was now, thicker than it should be at rest, clear interest indicated in its rise. 

Will steadied him with his right hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, his chest close enough to his back that if Hannibal pushed back at all they’d have been flush.  “That’s good, Hannibal,”  he murmured, petting him again with the same smooth, full-handed touch.  “It’ll feel a little strange at first, like it’s come out of nowhere.” 

Hannibal swallowed heavily, a faint shudder passing through him that stilled when Will increased the pressure against his ribs.  “Strange is…a word for it.”  Hannibal’s accent was thick, as if in his distraction enunciation had become too much.  “As if you pulled a string bound to your palm.”

Will’s pulse pounded in his neck, his ears.  The room felt hot, air thick like it had been the first time he’d walked into this room.  Full of scent, full of Hannibal.  Fronted by glass windows, baring them to anyone who walked by.  It wasn’t a surprise, that knowledge, so why did it feel, now, like something to make his skin burn?  There was nothing illicit, nothing private about training.  They had no need of closed doors. 

“Not just my palm.  Anyone could do this, if they know how.  Your body responds to the trigger, like it already does to the gloves, to the table, to the scent of an omega—“

“It’s different,”  Hannibal said, clipped, less rounded.  Closed off, like he’d already categorized the effect in his mind, and didn’t want it explained.  Unusual, for someone who more often than not appreciated an explanation for everything.  “Keep going.” 

In response, Will curled his fingers, let his nails skim faintly across the tracks of Hannibal’s ribs.  A continuation of sensation, and something of escalation.  A test, to gauge response. 

Hannibal’s hips jerked, his cock rising further with a quick pulse Will this time didn’t miss.  He wondered if, underneath the arousal, Hannibal could smell the rush of his own blood to his cock, the rearrangement of his body from sense memory alone. 

“You’re doing really well,” Will murmured, sure now from the times he’d provided it that as he’d suspected, Hannibal certainly didn’t mind praise.  In his life up to now, it had likely been scarce—for stretches of long years not given at all, for all Will knew.  He’d offer as much of it now as he could, because it was earned, and to make up some small portion of the discrepancy. 

Compared to others Will had trained, or who had come to him trained, Hannibal’s cock was rising slowly.  Still, that he’d reacted so instantaneously at all was a sign of progress.  He _was_ doing well, enough that a few more strokes had him almost fully hard.  The effort of holding himself up was starting to show in his arms, little twitches in the muscle.  The skin strained around his stitches. 

On impulse, Will stepped in close to press against him, his right arm reaching across to catch Hannibal’s left wrist and tug his arm away, bending it in toward his chest.  “Careful.  Just use the other one; you’ll be sore enough later as it is.  We don’t want to make it worse.” 

Hannibal’s eyelids fluttered, and he seemed for a moment to reach for something around the heaviness of his breath.  Whatever it was, he gave it up and swallowed, folded his arm in against his chest like a wounded bird and let Will hold it there with a low murmur of _yes, Will_ that sounded almost reverent. 

The choice to shift from stroking his side to taking his cock in his hand was easy, after that.  This was, after all, meant to be a reward, and Will could hardly imagine when the last time he’d have had a bare ungloved hand on him would have been.  Years back, he’d have guessed—the sharp, ragged sound that slipped from Hannibal’s throat seemed to bear that out as truth. 

Will shushed him, wordless comfort.  He turned his head against Hannibal’s shoulder, breathing into the space formed between their bodies, warm and steady.  He’d been kept from so much contact; it could only do him good to have as much of it as Will could provide, closeness and warmth from a soul working hard to earn his trust. 

His forehead pressed to the ball of Hannibal’s shoulder, and Will’s eyes closed, continuing by feel.  He knew the shape of an alpha’s cock in his hand, the heft of it, the subtle changes.  He’d know when it was time to stop, and get the sleeve.  For now, he could give Hannibal a chance to soak in something he’d been denied. 

For that very reason, it couldn’t last long. 

Will could feel the shift as Hannibal’s head dropped lower, his breath harsh and heavy.  His hips canted forward, pressed back against Will’s.  There was hardly a point they didn’t touch, from where Will’s head tucked against him down to the brush of his shin against Hannibal’s calf. 

Since he’d started working this job, Will had worked hard to seal himself off from picking up on the arousal of those he worked with, walling that emotion off to keep it from bleeding too thoroughly into his.  Most often, it was a separation that wasn’t too hard to make.  With Hannibal, that had been difficult from the beginning—he felt him too strongly, it seemed, to excise any one piece.  More bled through than he’d had to worry about since his earliest college days, and it could happen in various stages of collection. 

Like this, with Hannibal in his arms and moving against him…

He could hardly keep from feeling some measure of what Hannibal felt, when he so eagerly sought Hannibal’s emotions out.  How could he keep any facet of him out entirely, particularly like this? They came together too easily to fully disentangle, too entwined the minute they occupied the same space. 

Will swallowed, and tried his best to keep a little distance in their hips, the angle a little off.  They’d made progress, today, but they’d faced hurdles, too.  The last thing he wanted was to have to try and explain to Hannibal the stir of inappropriate arousal he couldn’t fully contain. 

The beginning swell of Hannibal’s knot came soon enough to rescue him, but Will felt a twinge of disappointment all the same.  Hannibal was comfortable, at ease even in his exertion; Will could feel it.  It seemed a shame to disturb him. 

He moved slowly to disengage, careful to touch Hannibal’s flank again as he did, cementing the association. 

There was glazed confusion in Hannibal’s eyes when they found his, studying as he caught his breath.  “You said—“

“We aren’t done.  Go ahead and get in bed; I’ll get the sleeve for you.” 

Hannibal’s tongue wet his mouth, soft and pink.  Will went for his bag, and kept his eyes carefully averted until he could hear the rustle of sheets, the creak and shift of Hannibal’s mattress.  He had seemed, for a moment, on the verge of asking a question Will was certain he didn’t want to grope for an answer to, not now.  He didn’t feel he’d done wrong, in offering what he had, but he hadn’t intended it when he showed up, either.  It had come naturally, in the moment, and while the intimacy of it hadn’t _felt_ wrong the more seconds that passed since he’d stepped away the more the knowledge of where his hand had been seemed to settle on him like a film, coating his fingertips when he rubbed them together. 

He’d not anything he wouldn’t have for any parasapient in these conditions, had he?  It was all still process, a little unusual, but process.  Simple kindness.  A road to giving Hannibal something he needed. 

When he’d repeated his chain of thought once more, he felt calmed, and lifted the collection sleeve from the case he’d carried it in.  As this wasn’t a proper collection he connected a receptacle to the end quickly, without washing up.  Nothing need be sterile, and he’d clean this all again before the next use, as it had been cleaned before this one.  He’d already turned it on and set it to keep to a steady warm when he left the house, not knowing when or if he’d actually need it. 

He turned it up, now, setting the dial to that of an omega’s body in heat—only to turn it down, to standard omega.  Something… more subtle, lingering.  Intimate. 

Over the work of his hands, he glanced at Hannibal.  “Would you like a long tie?  We could do 30 minutes; no time constraint here.” 

Hannibal’s soft sound already bled approval, but he nodded as he shifted against his blankets, rolling onto his back to thrust a little against the air.  Like so many others, he was far too well trained to even sate himself for a moment against his bed.  “Yes.  I’d like a long tie.” 

Carefully, Will reached in to coat the interior of the sleeve with slick, feeling, too, to make sure no one area felt too hot.  All that he could reach check out, from the expanse that would hold Hannibal’s knot to just beyond it.  In his hand, the sleeve made a low humming noise as it prepared to work, and Will brought it to Hannibal. 

At his bedside, he crouched down to put it on, guiding it carefully first then pressing his hand to Hannibal’s belly to steady him when it was almost fully on.  Once it had been, Will used it to stroke him twice, long enough to hear him inhale sharp and see his fingers twist into the blankets. 

His thumb hovered over the switch to activate the tie simulation.  “Ready?” 

Hannibal nodded, and reached for Will’s hand.  Will let him have it, and used the other to flip the switch, triggering the simulation and Hannibal’s orgasm, the sleeve clenching as vise tight as any omega around his knot. 

Hannibal groaned, low and rough, his body curling in with the intensity, one leg kicking out aimlessly until Will helped guide him to rest on his side, the sleeve propped up against his blankets.  The evidence of his pleasure was plain in the continued roll of his hips, the soft little grunts and sighs that left him, the clench and splay of his fingers against the bed like a kneading cat.  The sleeve was milking him, coaxing him, but all for pleasure.  No semen to save, no lab to vacate.  Just Hannibal, able to enjoy this process as if he’d buried inside a willing mate, curled in bed and riding out their tie. 

Well.  Not as thoroughly as that, perhaps, but Hannibal _did_ say he’d never felt the desire to take a mate.  This wasn’t the live cover he wanted, but it was something Will could give.  For the rest, they’d keep working. 

As he moved to stand, Hannibal’s loose grip on his hand became an anchor, tugging.  The confusion that had glazed his eyes before was gone, replaced by the settling calm of pleasure, and something so fond Will could taste it on his tongue.  Not cloying; just right. 

“Stay,” he asked, soft and smooth, more deliberately casual than he knew Hannibal felt.  Ready for rejection. 

Will gave himself half a second to consider whether it was unwise, and decided it wasn’t.  As he’d considered before, Hannibal needed contact, intimacy.  He could provide. 

He sat down, first, on the edge of the bed, but it was easier after a little shifting to get on it properly, to stretch his legs out and let Hannibal lay against his side, a long, hot weight, slightly curled.  His head nestled against Will’s ribs, and in petting his hair, there, Will came to realize why he was straining his ears so hard the hum of the sleeve seemed deafening.

For all the comfort he exuded, even now, Hannibal wasn’t purring.  In all their sessions, the most Will had gotten out of him was a rusty sound here and there from prostate massage, or at the end of a session, limp and curling up under a blanket.  The desire to ask him if he ever had was strong, but there could be no answer to suit this moment—if he had, the lack of it indicated lingering distrust or discomfort, or that he’d been trained against it.  If he hadn’t, he’d never in his life been comfortable enough to experience it. 

The pain of any of those answers didn’t suit the mood, not with Hannibal’s breath falling warm against his shirt to be felt through it, stuttering here and there when the sleeve clenched.  Instead, Will slipped his arm around Hannibal, and leaned back a little more fully against the bookshelf behind him when Hannibal’s arm came to rest around _him_ , over his stomach. 

“I know that you and Barney sometimes read to each other, before you sleep.  When this is over, if you’d like me to read a little for you—“

Hannibal nuzzled at his stomach, his body shifting a little to press closer.  “You can read to me now.  I can listen.” 

“If you had a mate, you know, they’d probably be offended that you had the presence of mind for the classics right now.” 

“If I had a mate, they would also appreciate the classics.”  A wave of pleasure took him by surprise, and he moaned into it, his fingers curling tight for a moment in Will’s shirt.  “You can read.  If I start to fall asleep, stop.  I don’t want to miss anything.” 

From under the bed, Will fished out _Les Miserables_ and began to read. 

“Chapter three, Marius’ Astonishments.”

“Marius is astonished by existence.  I’m far more sheltered than he is and he acts—“

Will found the nape of Hannibal’s neck and kneaded, silencing him.  “Shh.  Just let me read.”  In the silence, he felt Hannibal shift a little higher against him, and he continued.  “In a few days, Marius had become Courfeyrac’s friend. Youth is the season for prompt welding and the rapid healing of scars.”  Unable to resist, Will’s thumb found a piece of the old map of scars around Hannibal’s neck, skimming it with his knuckles.  “Marius breathed freely in Courfeyrac’s society, a decidedly new thing for him.”

“Perhaps he’s less foolish than I thought.”

The second time, Hannibal shushed easier, and Will could feel his smile. 

As he read, Hannibal relaxed into the tie until it was over and the sleeve removed, until they were ten chapters away and Will was wishing he’d brought himself water.  He stopped when Hannibal was still awake enough to grasp at his shirt, but too weary to get his tongue before Will could catch his hand, answer a question unasked. 

“I’ll stay.  Just awhile, to make sure the nightmare doesn’t come back.” 

As instantly as a patch of cloth released to settle, Hannibal’s fingers unfurled. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably should have been called, Will Is In Trouble, Volume 9. XD 
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for reading! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, and I can't wait to see all your thoughts...more even than normal since I'm going to be visiting with extremely difficult family on approx 2.5 hours sleep in about....5 hours, XD eep. 
> 
> For everyone who may be new to this fic, it updates 1-2 chapters every other week, so these boys will be back the week that starts with Sunday the 16th. 
> 
> If you want to get in touch with me on tumblr, I'm always happy for you to! I'm whreflections over there too. 
> 
> And now, I'm gonna go crash.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii :) 
> 
> As always, you guys are the best and I love you. 
> 
> Also, a visual aid for this chapter can be found here-
> 
> http://whreflections.tumblr.com/post/163082031998/because-i-am-an-absolute-animal-dork-for-those

Late May in Georgia was a time of slow and fluid change, like the last drop of honey reaching down from a dipper, the long trail of final ties to spring stretched out behind and soon to break.  The golden whole of summer stretched out before this point.  This far south the mass of it was long and thick, the farthest reaching season of the year.    
  
Will loved it.  He had grown up in Louisiana where the summer pressed on his lungs like a weight and the sun could burn your scalp after an hour in it on some days.  The lengthening days had begun increasingly to feel like balm against his soul, the beckoning of lingering light in the evenings calling him to pleasures he'd almost forgotten he craved.  He'd stayed far too long in the chill of Virginia.  There was enjoyment to be found in ice fishing and watching the dogs plow through the snow, to be sure, but it was nothing to evenings like this—settled into a chair on his own dock, listening to the lake lap with shy fingers at the shore and the dogs ramble around him with wild energy they'd waited all day to release.    
  
When he'd bought this house, it had been the lake that decided him.  The prospect of being able to fish off his own land was idly tempting, but in all honesty he was more a fly fisherman than the stationary sort.  Mostly, when he looked at this place he'd seen the dogs leaping into the water with a fantastic spray, himself swimming out with them, holding Moonbeam up under her chest when her short little legs started to tire.  Picturing his life here had been easy.  The reality of his work had become...a good deal more complicated.    
  
To the left, Anansi and Moonbeam played like choreographed dancers, Anansi ever feather-light on his toes, darting in and out around her like there were springs in the pads of his feet.  She took it all with good humor, her tail swishing across the grass, stubby jaws snapping with no real intent here and there at his dainty little dipped white feet.  Buster busied himself tracking squirrels, and Winston had settled into his now familiar perimeter sweep, heading first back toward the front yard to sniff at the tires of Will's car and see who he’d meet and where he’d been.  They were far enough off the main road that Will worried little letting them run, but the need to keep loose track of them was always there in his mind, keeping him counting them like a mother hen with errant chicks.  Lydia lay on her own demolishing a stick with endearing efficiency, and Dragonfly—

  
Will could hear his warbling bay rolling out from beyond the treeline, had heard him on and off singing and crashing through the underbrush ever since he'd shot out the door like his tail was on fire, but it took craning his neck to see a flash of his red-brown coat darting through the ever encroaching green.  It was far too early in the evening for him to be on the current trail of a coon, and there were no flocks of birds scattering before him.  Whatever he was chasing, the trail was probably cold, his quarry bouncing before him only in his mind.    
  
Will's swell of affection for him warmed him all the way to his fingertips, pushed them to reach down and feel for one of the bumpers he kept stashed in the bag hanging from the side of this chair.  The grit of dried lake water came off on the pads of his fingers on his first attempt, until he gripped it a little more firmly.  He tapped it on the wooden edge of his rocking chair, a solid sound the dogs had in just a few weeks become well familiar with.  “Dragonfly!  Come on back.”  

Based on the volume of sound from the woods, he’d be receiving a small tyrannosaur back in place of an overeager hound and spaniel mix.  The rapid click of nails on the dock—too small and quick to be large enough—alerted him to Buster before he was there.  He rose up quick like a little meerkat, his feet hooking over Will’s knee to snuffle at the bumper.  

“You know, I don’t think your name is Dragonfly,” Will said, his wry affection further gentled by the scratch of his fingers behind Buster’s ear.  “Pretty sure you don’t even like this toy, either.  If you answer to everything, you’re gonna be disappointed a lot, little man.  Not everything I do involves food.” 

 They had had this conversation before, and would have it again, an amusing constant that made Will smile almost as much as the little furrow of confusion between Buster’s eyes at the realization that there was not, in fact, anything more interesting than a toy that didn’t squeak and the smell of dried mud and algae and fish.  

Dragonfly himself arrived with all the grace of a baby rhino, hurtling onto the dock to trip over a coil of rope and crash to the ground.  Belatedly, he yelped as he stood up, a tiny tuft of fur left behind and caught in a sliver of wood.  

Will sighed.  “Dragonfly, c’mere, buddy.  Come here.”  

Too excited now that he’d seen the bright orange bumper, he pranced out of reach, the fall already forgotten.  Will could see, though, that it wasn’t his only problem—burrs had amassed behind his ears in numbers large enough to look the size of sweet gum balls, and a touch of blood marred the speckled white fur on his chest, near his left shoulder.  Likely, he’d run through a thorn patch on his way in, or on his way out.  

Will stuck the bumper under his arm, and held out his hand.  “Copter, c’mere, you little monster.”  

Whether he responded to the nickname or the hand Will wasn’t sure, but it was gratifying to be able to catch his collar and tug him in close, a big, sloppy tongue lapping enthusiastically at his wrist all the while.  Will had named him Dragonfly the day he’d brought him home, and that name would stick, but the nickname belying the reason for it wasn’t likely to go anywhere either.  His own not-so-little helicopter, forever at his heels or underfoot when he got up in the house, hovering at doorways and car doors, always vigilant.  Filled to the brim with fear of missing out, Bella had said, such genuine tender amusement in her voice that Dragonfly had actually gone still enough to press his face into her stomach.  

The truth of his vigilance was, like the stories of most of his dogs, more painful.  He’d been returned to the shelter in Silver Springs three times, likely due to his occasionally overwhelming exuberance.  On the website he’d been listed as having a ‘zest for life’, in need of a ‘large family to give him plenty of love’.  It was true enough, but the dogs best with kids were often too much dog for the _parents_ of the kids, and it was plain by the history he could glean that for a two year old dog he’d had far too rough of a road. 

Will had closed his laptop, driven an hour to get him, and never looked back, not even when his new arrival had chewed a seat belt buckle into near unidentifiable pieces on the way home.  He had a big family, and he needed zest for life.  More often than not, he found himself thoroughly deficient in it.  As a dog owner, it was his privilege to know he could promise Dragonfly a home and a bed and a bowl and all the love he could soak up for the rest of his life, and his curse to know he couldn’t say the same for himself. 

 One day, he’d lose this bright light of his, and he’d take some of Will’s own already dim enthusiasm right along with him. 

 Will dropped the burrs to fall between the slats of the dock, and planted a quick kiss to the irregular diamond on Dragonfly’s head as he let him go.  The cut was nothing, and bothering him over it now would just be a struggle, but he’d wanted to take care of the burrs before they started to properly mat.  Judging by the irritated sneeze and rake of Dragonfly’s paws one after the other behind his ears, his efforts weren’t appreciated. 

 Even so, Will was smiling as he threw the bumper, though his mind had started to drift.  He didn’t expect Dragonfly’s appreciation, and he didn’t expect Hannibal’s either, but he was getting it.  Every week, the clarity not only of affection but of respect in Hannibal’s eyes when Will walked in seemed to sharpen by degrees.  Soon enough, Will wasn’t sure there’d be anywhere left for it to go, and he’d done precious little to earn it—what _had_ he done, really, beyond the bare minimum Hannibal should have expected of anyone?

Provided him with books?  A pittance, when Will’s bookshelves were full of them and he had more than enough money for a few extra.  Given him honesty?  Unusual, but hardly worthy of…

Of whatever it was that tied a knot his stomach when Hannibal nuzzled against his palm, now, of the bald depth of feeling in his eyes that pulled that tether tight when Hannibal looked up at him.  How much of what he felt was his, and how much Hannibal?  When had he lost the ability to be sure?  He’d never felt this… _bleed_ around the edges half so strong with any of the others.  Was the difference in his change in perspective, or would this have happened with Hannibal regardless, whether he’d met him now or twenty years before? 

Dragonfly nudged the wet bumper into Will’s hand, the slimy nubs of it dragging across his knuckles. 

Will took it and chucked it hard, shook the water off his hand but used his dry one to pull his phone from his pocket.  Last week, after he’d gotten home from reading Hannibal to sleep after his injury, he’d e-mailed Jack, and asked about Anthony.  The e-mail he’d gotten back had been short, to the point, and Jack all over. 

_Don’t do this to yourself, Will.  He’s fine._

_We could sure use you back here.  That new kid we hired is all fired up to try all the steps you left her, but it’s not the same as having you here.  If you want to teach Miriam to run a breeding program like you, you’d do a better job of it helping her out._

_The new class starts in a couple weeks; the first omega’s showing signs of pre-heat.  I’ve attached a picture of them here for you.  They’re a great bunch.  Tyler’s got more fire than any omega I’ve ever seen; she’ll be a pistol.  Give me a call when you can._

_Bella says to ignore me and enjoy Georgia, and I gave her my word I’d say it.  Give her love to the dogs, too.  I hope you’re well._

_-Jack_

The screen had dimmed out on him three times before Will closed the e-mail, and pulled up the keypad.  Impatient, having already bumped him at least twice, Dragonfly tossed the bumper directly into Will’s lap.  The lake water was cold soaking through his slacks, but it was warm enough now, even with evening fast coming on, that he couldn’t mind it.  He’d dry. 

Will ruffled Dragonfly’s ears, made his throw, and dialed.  Jack answered on the fourth ring. 

“Agent Crawford.” 

Will settled back in his chair, and tried not to let the spider of tension at the base of his spine crawl any higher.  “Shouldn’t you be home, by now?” 

There was a pause, and then Will could hear him huff, almost a laugh.  Will could see it, Jack’s tension receding even as Will’s threatened to climb.  “I am, but you called my work phone.”

“Old habits,” Will said, the laughter that chased it only marginally scratchy.  “If you’re busy—“

“Bella’s cooking; I think she’ll be glad to get me out of the kitchen.”  The phone shifted against Jack’s shoulder, and Will could see him meander out of his kitchen, some unknown and unseen hand signal or mouthed word confirming for his wife that this was Will, and he’d take it.  He’d still be wearing his suit jacket, in all likelihood.  Barely home, pseudo working.  Bella did it too, sometimes.  “Did you see the picture of the pups?” 

He had, and it had done precisely what Jack had wanted it to.  Or, it had at least banked on the _feelings_ Jack had wanted it to.  He’d stared a full five minutes at the group of fifteen young parasapients draped all over each other in front of the obstacle course wall like human children at a summer camp, all smiles.  The FBI kennel was, so much as any institution could be, a gentle place to grow up.  Will had worked hard to make it so, and to keep it a safe place to learn, to grow into adulthood, to come back to as retired and cherished studs and dams. 

He had a picture of Anthony smiling like that too, and Georgia.  Beverly’s didn’t pain him so much.  He had it on the wall in his hallway, framed, Beverly utterly familiar and ever a stand-out, hanging up above the other pups and upside down on the limb of a magnolia tree.  It had been before his time, but after he’d become her handler, he’d searched it out.  He had a folder full of them, all of those he’d worked with frozen in a time at a point before they’d become the individuals he knew.  Some of them hadn’t changed much.  For others, the comparison was drastic, and sobering. 

Will rubbed between his eyes, began a slow rock in his chair that made something in the seat and legs creak.  The rockers themselves moved smooth—a relief, since unlike he usually did he hadn’t looked first to make sure he wasn’t going to catch anyone’s tail.  “I’m not coming back, Jack.  I told you that when I left.  I’m here to work with Hannibal, and then I’m going to retire.” 

“Will, come on, would you talk sense?  You’re 35!  Hell, you could work another 40 years!  More, maybe, if you keep your health.”

Will’s laughter was sharp, hitched a little when Buster leaped unexpected into his lap.  Will tugged him against his stomach until his nails weren’t digging in to his thighs.  “That’s assuming I have my health now.”

“Don’t you?”

Will’s noise of dissent was noncommittal, but lingering.  He didn’t talk about the nightmares, much, and they hardly kept him from functioning.  His migraines were rare, so long as he stayed out of the main hallways of the kennels, kept from being too overwhelmed by the press of the confined.  “Mostly, yeah, but I won’t if I do this 40 years.  I’m not sure I could do it 20.”  Some days, lately, he wasn’t sure he could leave it either, but that was more…specific.  Contained. 

Across the line he could feel Jack’s frustration—a realization that brought with it an odd pause, a slight smile.  _Across the line_ was, really, on the borderline of becoming antiquated.  Phone lines stretched the length and breadth of the world, but they ran so lightly used, these days.  Contact was more ethereal, no physical tether, just the bounce of signal flung far and wide, reaching the ears of the intended.  Was it more personal, like this?  No potential to cross into a conversation that wasn’t yours, like he had as a child.  He and his Aunt Tina had sat mostly quiet on the line, seven year old Will giggling, listening to a woman with a Yankee accent tell her friend about the paint samples she’d picked up.  It had been entirely mundane, and utterly magical to a child.  An insight into another life, like a hole cut in a living room wall.  It had seemed to Will, then, that his own burgeoning gifts weren’t so abnormal.  Overlap happened to other people sometimes too.  Wires were crossed, unusual connections made. 

Jack was talking about the pups. 

“—they’re such a solid group, Will; you wouldn’t believe it.  One of the alphas is already alerting to the scent of C4 at a distance of 50 yards.  I mean think about that, _50 yards_ ; that’s a bigger window than any bomb parasapient or bomb dog’s ever given us.  When we teach him to sharpen that up, it’ll be even further.  Imagine being able to tell our soldiers _a football field away_ that there’s an explosive.” 

It was promising; Will’d be a hell of a heel if he said it wasn’t.  At the end of the dock, Winston splashed into the water, paddling out to grab onto the other end of the bumper so he and Dragonfly could carry it back in tandem.  The house, then, must be secure.  Rounds finished.  Not a blade of grass out of place. 

“It’d be amazing, Jack; it would.  When it comes to minimizing lives lost, I’m as much in support of that as you are.”

“But?”  It was a relief, to hear little anger in Jack’s voice.  There was a barb there, sure, but he wanted Will’s thoughts, Will’s instincts.  He valued them too highly to ignore, even when he chose to override them. 

“But, what toll is the work going to take on him?  If he misses a bomb because the wind is wrong, that’s—“  Will tossed his hand, more useless than gesturing to a blind man.  “—500 lives we taught him it was his responsibility to save.”

“That’s the same kind of choice soldiers and firefighters make every day, Will.  The same choice our agents make.  If—“

“They make the _choice_ , Jack.”  Will sat forward, half consciously dumping Buster out of his lap and onto the deck.  He landed with an irritated huff.  “A firefighter chooses to walk into a burning building.  A bomb parasapient’s been trained to do nothing else from the moment they were born.  All other interests are disregard, regardless of what they would _choose_ —“

“This is not—“  Jack was almost yelling, but Will’s momentum was too far gone to stop, too embedded at the root of his tongue. 

“—or what they need, what the cost might be on their health, if they’re even healthy enough for it at all—“

“This is not about Anthony and Georgia!”  There was proper volume, that time.  Will hoped he’d gone upstairs and closed the door.  Bella didn’t deserve to be disturbed by their arguments now any more than she had when he’d been living within driving distance. 

Will rose to his feet, the rocker carrying on his momentum, like little waves gliding in the wake of a swell.  The dogs had clambered up the ramp and out of the water, and they stood now in a deadlock at the end of the dock, intent in their argument over who would get to bring the prize to Will, a debate full of soft, good-natured growls and wagging tails.  Will’s own arguments rarely went so well. 

He could do his best, though, to back this one down from the precipice it had reached.  “Of course it’s about Anthony and Georgia, Jack.  It all is.”  He’d softened his voice, attempted to bring it down to the tone he’d use to talk a parasapient through a procedure.  In reality, it had come out sounding too tired to be a match.  “It’s about Hannibal, too.  These aren’t…chess pieces we’re talking about, and they aren’t volunteers, either.  We placed Anthony with an FBI team working with the Navy, why?  Because he was born on day X in month Y?  It’s an inherently flawed system; it’ll never fit.  He was as suited to be a diver as I’d be working customer service, but no one ever would have made me.  I developed, I chose based on _my_ skills.”

“You’re a human, Will.  Try to keep that in mind.”  In the aftermath of his yelling, Jack sounded now every bit as tired as Will did.  There was a measure of small, unexpected comfort in that.  

“It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t work.  It never can.  It’s worse than condemning me to life as a boat mechanic because it’s what my father did.”

“You like fixing boats.”

“That _really_ isn’t the point, Jack.”  Will exhaled, crossed to the end of the dock and dropped down into a crouch.  Both tails wagged faster as he rubbed his knuckles across each scrunched nose in turn, slow and easy.  “It doesn’t matter what ‘stock’ they’re from; each parasapient should be assessed on an individual basis.  Send Beverly off to the Marines because she’s chomping at the bit, sure, but it’s not gonna be that way for everyone.  It never will be.” 

Jack sighed, and Will imagined that in the distance he could hear dishes clattering.  Bella got noisier the closer dinner got.  She’d learned to, over time.  Her husband needed an advance warning system to stop working, and show up.  He liked to do it without being told, to seem like he’d known. 

“If I’d known that accident was going to happen—“

“Don’t, Jack.  You’d have sent him anyway.  I knew it was bad for him; I told you it was bad for him so just…just don’t.”  It was still crystal clear in his mind, the first warning he’d had, the first he’d taken in and given out.  Little bright-eyed clever Anthony, always with a joke just behind his teeth, his eyes on the beauty of the world wherever he went.  He could find patterns in broken tile.  In another life, he’d have made a hell of artist, maybe a historian.  In this one, due to his species and the time of his birth he’d been marked an FBI diver for use in joint operations with the Navy.  The fact that the first time he’d performed a diving exercise in a mock cave he’d come out near frantic with fear had mattered not at all. 

It would have been enough that he threw up every time he took an oxygen tank, more than enough that he shook like a leaf and clung to Will with alarming frequency the closer they came to the date of his departure.  He was, in all other respects, a fairly traditional alpha.  Solid and strong, his personality in its own way as bold as Beverly’s. 

After the training accident that had taken place at an offshore facility a few months after he’d been shipped off and out of Will’s hands had rendered him the sole survivor of a group of seven, he’d been sent back to the kennel of his birth, far too early for typical retirement.  He was, the report stated, afflicted with a ‘mental defect’ brought on by his near death experience, though the medical record stated he’d suffered no brain damage, no physical injury at all beyond the torn nails he’d suffered trying to escape a faulty simulation. 

He did, however, now suffer from an aversion to water so strong he could only drink it when mildly sedated.  The majority of his hydration was provided, out of compassion, intravenously.  Though he obeyed every request made of him with a trail horse’s dependability, there was little more than a sliver left of the cunning little coyote Will had known.  The tile in the halls held no shapes for him, and he kept his eyes fixed forward.  Always watching, always careful. 

How could the core of what drove him, now, _not_ be about Anthony?  Or about Georgia, mentally unwell and pushed toward a career that would have destroyed her, too, if Will hadn’t intervened? 

There could be no extraction, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear Jack lie.  He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn’t always a good one, either.  The same could be said of most men, Will himself not excluded. 

On the receiving end of the mass of thought and words he’d sent out into the ether, Jack’s chagrin came in the shuffle of the phone, his urge to try and contradict Will’s honesty played out but a few aborted breaths. 

“I regret what happened to him.  I regret what…what he is now.  He came from my facility; that’s on me, Will.  You’re right; you warned me.  His blood’s on my hands, not yours.” 

“There wasn’t too much blood.  Just his fingernails.  I saw the pictures.”  The reminder was light, and full of dreamlike horror.  Will flexed his own hand, and tugged the bumper easily from both dogs’ mouths.  “Tell him I asked about him.  Tell him I’ll come visit, in a few months.  Beverly too.” 

“Visit.”  The disappointment was flat, but Will could hear it, feel it pull down the length of his neck away from his ear like vine coated in thorns. 

“Yeah, visit.  Hannibal needs me here, and I like being here.  I can help him.  I can do something for him no one else can.”  Or, with a little less arrogance, something no one else had tried to.  Maybe someone else could have succeeded. 

He was, guiltily, glad they hadn’t.  If they had, he never would have come here, and they never would have met. 

“So, tell me about this Hannibal.  I don’t know much, but if half of what Chilton was saying was true when he hired you, you’ve got your hands full.”

The sense memory of Hannibal’s hand in his was so strong, suddenly, that Will looked down.  In a deep, visceral, utterly nonsensical way he felt bereft that it was empty. 

His laugh was soft, and mostly at himself.  “I’ve got my hands full, and so do you.  We’ll talk about Hannibal some other time.  It’s dinner time.  Tell Bella I miss her.” 

Faintly, he heard Jack’s chair scrape.  He’d gone to his office; that was good.  “We miss you, too.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Barney turned her face toward the sun, eyes closed to better soak in the rays.  "Lord, today's the kind of day you wish you didn't have to work."  Her observation was broken by the faintest noise of pure contentment, chased by the upward stretch of her arms.  She'd rolled her sleeves up to bare them to the sun, too.   The prominent muscles now visible as they shifted under her deep brown skin might have startled him, if he hadn't been well aware of her strength.  She didn't have to use it for him to see it in her movements when she worked with those under her care; it was visible in her deliberate gentleness rather than in spite of it.  His father had taught him when he was young that inadequacy yelled; real strength was almost always quiet. 

It was often true with alphas too, as it was with Hannibal.  He was one of the gentlest parasapients Will had ever seen, and the quietest about his power.  He never postured, he rarely growled, and yet Will didn't believe there was a single parasapient in the facility that could take him in a fight. He probably could have bested even Beverly, though that wasn't a fight Will would ever want to see. 

From the end of his leash, Hannibal gave Barney the faintest smile over his shoulder.  "Forgive me for being grateful you do have to work.  Many of the others prefer to tether me to the treadmill."

Set up under UV lights in a room with peeling paint and the smell of bleach and sweat, it was technically considered an enrichment activity on par with a walk outdoors.  In reality, there was no comparison at all. 

Will ruffled the hair near the nape of Hannibal's neck.  "I wouldn't let them," he said, his fingers kneading when Hannibal pressed into the touch.  It would have been best, perhaps, to follow that with a reminder for both of them that Will wasn't always there, that he couldn't solve every problem, every slight, but it felt too good to see Hannibal's smile reach his eyes, and to smile along with him.  He couldn't say for certain how it felt for Hannibal, but the harsh realities of this place  seemed to melt down to hurdles that weren't so hard to cross, when they were together.  There was something exhilarating in knowing he would fight for Hannibal, that Hannibal would give him if not trust then at least the patience to let him try. 

"If taking a walk with you was all I had to do, I'd have no problem coming in.  Hell, I'd pay for this."  Barney was teasing, a little, but Will was certain there was truth there, too.  She'd tipped her hand from the moment he'd met her- she tried not to get attached but she did, and she was more attached to Hannibal than she'd ever been to any of the parasapients she'd worked with.  If she had the right permits, she'd have applied to take Hannibal for offsite enrichment.  If she had the permits and the money, she'd have put in a bid to buy him, though whether Chilton would have accepted was another matter entirely.  Pettiness aside, Chilton would be a fool to take less than $15,000 for a proven stud of Hannibal's caliber.  On a keeper's salary, that wouldn’t be in Barney's price range, not unless she had a lottery ticket or inheritance up her sleeve. 

Even for those with the money, Chilton had to be willing to sell, and if he wasn't selling to a man who'd likely offered well over market value, he wasn't likely to sell to anyone.  It certainly wasn't moral compunctions that had kept him from it. 

Will breathed in long and slow, tasted Hannibal and weeds and baking earth on the air.  He could smell a fraction of what Hannibal could, he knew, and still he found the effect soothing, natural.  Scent was a powerful memory trigger, and equally powerful in soothing nerves, halting unproductive tangents.  He'd put too much thought into the mathematics and probability of Hannibal's future already, at quiet moments, at ragged ones in the middle of the night.  It wasn't productive.  He wasn't stupid enough to throw himself into a bidding war with Mason Verger that would only make him more like to come out with an offer Chilton couldn't refuse, and besides all that he'd resolved long ago to never personally own a parasapient.  That Hannibal had even made it cross his mind after he'd decided so thoroughly to stand by his conviction with Georgia was proof of his singularity, and that in itself likely deserved a little more study. 

He wasn't about to force that introspection right now. 

From his shoulder bag, he pulled out the 50 foot check cord he'd stashed in there a few weeks ago, waiting for an opportunity like the one he had now.  Made for working with hunting dogs in the field who couldn't quite be trusted off lead but needed to work at distance, it was long and thin and light, infinitely less cumbersome and restrictive than the chain leash Hannibal was used to.  It was, also, definitely not hefty enough to restrain a struggling alpha, but his success with Hannibal had never been about overpowering him. 

Will's hand curled around the strap on Hannibal's harness to hold him in place while he clipped the leash to the D ring.  The clip was so small and light it barely closed around the thicker metal of the ring, but he managed.  In his curiosity, Hannibal had gone still, his head frozen half in the motion of trying to turn, as if he'd realized only halfway the futility of trying to see his own back.  It wasn't easy, halting instincts.  Though he wouldn't have called it out out loud, Will rubbed his knuckles lightly against the line of Hannibal's spine for a moment as he drew his hand away, a silent reward for his efforts.  With his right hand, he unclipped the chain leash and let it fall.  It fell in a coil, landing like a snake at Hannibal’s heels. 

"I have zero doubts that you won't make me regret this, “ Will said, holding the orange cord up for Hannibal's perusal.  "And it’s pretty empty out here, but just don't get in any fights, okay?  If someone bothers you before I see them, you come straight back to me.  I'll deal with them." 

Hannibal rubbed his fingertips across the thin band of nylon, as faint as a butterfly testing a surface before landing.  “How far can I go?”

“I don’t know just how far 50 feet’ll take you, but we’ll find out.”  Will gestured to the scrubby field in the middle of the walking track, empty save for a handler and parasapient at the far end.  “Walk, lay down and get some sun.  It’s your time, Hannibal; do whatever you want.  If you need to reach somewhere you can’t, I’ll get up and follow you.”  He’d probably end up walking with him anyway, if Will had his way, but he didn’t want to monopolize Hannibal’s time outdoors.  He got precious little of it; he didn’t have to spend all of it walking and talking with Will. 

As a further lapse in caution, he used a carabineer to clip the loop at the end of the check cord to his belt, leaving Hannibal still tethered but essentially hands free.  He was free to explore, and Will was free to sit down in the grass alongside Barney, taking in the welcome weight of the summer sun. 

Will sighed as he sat down, shifted to avoid the rock jabbing into his ass that only became apparent when he tried to lean back.  Though he checked for bees before placing his palms in the grass behind him, he didn’t catch the flat sticker plant his right hand found.  Wincing, he shook it out, rubbed it on his pants until he couldn’t feel the lingering sting, and placed it again.  The cool of the grass against his skin was soothing, though it felt dry and stiff.  They needed a rain. 

Peeling his eyes off Hannibal, midway across the field and looking up at the clouds, he turned to Barney.  She was sunning still, eyes closed and peaceful.  He’d have been willing to bet if Hannibal had called out to them she’d have been on her feet quick as a whip. 

“So if you weren’t at work,” her eyes cracked open, and Will pressed on.  “What would you be doing with a day like today?”

“I’d say I’d spend a good bit of it working on my garden, but that’s mostly wishful thinking.  I’ve got too much homework to do.”  Barney smiled in answer to the surprise Will couldn’t quite wall off from his face, and he could feel no offense it.  In at least her mid 30’s, like him, she certainly didn’t look like the typical student.  “I started a bit late.  Went through the Army first, four years.  Still wasn’t sure what to do after that, but after working here awhile I figured it out.  I’m working on a vet tech license, a little bit at a time.” 

“You’ll be perfect.”  His answer was quick, but not automatic.  True, and fully intentioned.  “You’re good with them; you’re wonderful with Hannibal.  We need as many people working with parasapients as we can get who…”  His tongue tied, words jumbling and jostling for prominence.  _Who care?  Who treat them with respect?_  

Unable to keep from it, he glanced at Hannibal.  He was fairly distant, now, bent over and picking something from the grass. 

“Who don’t agree with Dr. Chilton?” Barney finished for him, a wry twist to her mouth.  “I hate that man so much I’d’ve quit if I didn’t care about everyone I’m looking after enough to stay.  And, the pay’s not bad.  If I’ve got to work while I get my degree, might as well keep doing it here.” 

Will laughed, leaned back a little further onto his hands and felt the grass dig in.  “Tell me how you really feel, Barney.” 

“Hey, I didn’t when you got here cause I didn’t know you yet but through your books.  That told me good things itself, but I know you better now.  After Hannibal telling me you damn near told Chilton to go to hell, I knew where you stood.”  There was such proud approval there, as if he’d somehow become a child deserving of praise, or a knight cheered for surviving a joust.  He wasn’t sure which comparison was more apt, but he was more sure all the time he’d be glad to have Keziah Barney as a friend. 

“You didn’t hold back too much when I got here, though, and I’m glad you didn’t.  I’d have found out some of it soon enough but…it was good to know he had someone who worries about him.”  Will swallowed, his hands flexing, nails digging into earth and blades too dry to give easily.  “I worry about him, too.” 

“Someone has to.  I don’t think he worries much about himself, except when he can’t help it.  Just worries about everybody else he thinks needs someone to intervene.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”  He’d started a file on his computer kept in the same folder as his fledgling book draft, a list of everything he’d learned about Hannibal, speculation on the pieces still too blurry to grasp.  This much, though, he could do from memory.  There probably wasn’t any of it he couldn’t pull from memory, at this point.  Will sat forward, crossing his legs, his arms resting against his knees.  “I had wondered at first if he had a mate when he was young that he lost, but I don’t know that that’s it anymore.  It wouldn’t cover everything; the records say he started lashing out at anyone with aggressive tendencies when he was still at the shelter as a pup.  Some behaviors are innate, but as much trauma as he’s had and as automatic as that response is, I don’t believe he was born with it.”  Barney had sat forward to mirror him, her eyes soft with concern, and empty of surprise.  She’d gotten at least this far, too.  “Someone he saw as weaker, as needing his protection, suffered abuse he tried to prevent.  He may not even remember it, but I’m not so sure he doesn’t.  Has he ever mentioned anything like that to you?  Someone he grew up with, maybe, or even his mother?” 

Barney shook her head, slow, like she was scanning over her information again even as she denied it to be sure that was no remembered tidbit she’d left out.  “No.  No, nothing like that.  Sometimes when he has nightmares, I’d swear he’s looking for someone, and he talks sometimes in Lithuanian; it has to be.  It’s not French.  Mostly, though, he just…screams.”  A shudder passed down her arms, like the fall of shade.  “Swear to God it’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard.  Like someone’s skinning him alive.”  

Part of Will never wanted to hear it; the rest of him knew that to understand it, to take it in, he’d have to.  In drinking the sounds into his own throat, letting them soak from the air through his own skin,  he’d find something—it might not be a truth he wanted to know, but it’d be one Hannibal needed to share, whether he’d have said it in so many words himself or not.  Whatever had happened to him, it was too big a burden to place on someone so young, so big that years later the remnants of who he had been that had formed who he became still staggered under the weight. 

Across the field, Hannibal had straightened, and was looking at the sky.  At this distance, he looked tall and strong, his scars hidden by the space between and the glare of the sun.  Against his thumb, Will could feel the phantom cording of scar tissue, thick and rough and old.  He cleared his throat.  “Have you ever heard him purr?” 

Barney’s eyes went to him, too, like reflex action.  There was pain in the press of her thumbnail into her palm, distracting her from something in her head Will couldn’t hear, or couldn’t see.  With a little more information he was sure he could imagine, and less sure he wanted to. 

“Not really,” she said, shaking her head.  “Not all the way.  For the longest time I didn’t think he could; I thought maybe when he was a pup they—you know how they clip some of them, especially the big ones.” 

Will nodded, tight and grim.  He did know; he’d seen it at a farm in Louisiana.  It was considered a minor operation, clips made in the excess laryngeal muscle that allowed alphas to form a deep, rich purr.  The folds were much smaller in omegas, the sound softer but pretty, like the breath of wind through chimes.  Alphas were richer, deeper, a little wild.  Most found the sound homey and comforting, others unnerving.  Those of prior human generations occasionally had the misplaced belief that it made omegas skittish to hear it, and it was best done away with.  He’d seen no surgical scars on Hannibal, though, but it was possible the other scars could have hidden them, distracted him from their presence. 

It was possible, too, that he hadn’t wanted to consider that answer.  Not for Hannibal. 

“I thought that might be all there was to it and I didn’t want to ask him, but he got hurt pretty bad fighting in the spring Buyer’s Showcase one year and Dr. Price had to give him morphine.  He was all out of it, and he was laying with his eyes half closed on the table and I was telling him it was okay and then—“  Barney faltered, her eyes too bright when Will caught them.  She blinked against it, her exhale winded though she hadn’t moved.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t really like to think about; he smiles so easy for me now it’s hard to think how unhappy he is.”

Will wanted to take her hand, and wasn’t sure he should.  It was easier, with parasapients.  Touch was always welcome.  People were harder.  “I don’t think he is entirely unhappy, not all the time.  He cares about you, and he enjoys your company.  That’s true; I can see it.  I think…from what I can tell, his mind runs on several channels at the same time, and he can’t afford distraction.  He might be happy with you in one moment, but at the same time he knows he isn’t safe here, he has to be ready if the situation changes.  Most parasapients, they come to accept captivity to a degree that…blinds them to its dangers, or seems to.   Hannibal doesn’t.” 

“The drugs made him relax, whether he wanted to or not.”

Blunt, and honest.  The defeat in her words said it all, and Will didn’t feel the need to say any more.  All that she’d described played behind his eyes, looped and loud.  He could see the table, smell blood and peroxide.  Hear Hannibal, drowsily purring, the sound filling the room. 

He had his answer, now, and while it could have been worse, it hung in his chest like jagged wire all the same.  So far as science understood it, the purr response was deeply innate, so unconsciously controlled it startled many young parasapients the first time it happened.  Hannibal’s distrust and discontent had roots that were deep, so old they spiraled down to reach his core.  As a pup, Will had to believe it had come easier to him, but much had happened since then, and there was no way, now, to prove or disprove how he might have turned out in a different life.  There was only Hannibal, as he was, a whole that Will wouldn’t have dared call broken.  The real shock was that anything of him had survived the crucible of his past at all. 

Will looked up to check Hannibal again, intending to gather his thoughts and move forward, but what he saw startled his head clear.  He couldn’t make out any details from this distance, but there was undeniably a bird perched on Hannibal’s outstretched hand, pecking with delicate little jabs at whatever he’d held in his palm.  Will blinked, and the image remained.  “Is he—“  Their first walk came back to him, a little wild strawberry bouncing on Hannibal’s palm, his distraction so great the last of his erection had withered.  “He’s taught the birds to eat from his hand.” 

Barney laughed, her amusement at his awed confusion perfectly clear.  “Not any others that I’ve seen yet, but yeah he taught that one.  Took him a good bit of time, too.  He sat stone still in the middle of the field for weeks with a line of those little wild strawberries on the ground in front of him so they could figure out he was safe.  That little one figured out pretty quick it was easier to get strawberries from him than it was to pick them on their own.  Smart little thing.” 

Will’s chest felt stretched tight, his heart beating rough against the solid press of it.  “I saw him try it before.  I didn’t know what he was doing, then.  I thought he’d picked the strawberry out of curiosity.” 

“He’s got a lot of that, so maybe that started it.  I can’t say.  I just know I’d suggested he might try working with the plants out here a little—it’s all weeds but there’s a couple alphas I’ve been teaching a little gardening to and they’d be trying to spread the wild strawberries, get some more color out there.  He lost interest in the gardening pretty quick, but I think he loved the challenge of luring that bird.” 

It would have been a challenge, that much was true.  Drawing in a wild animal required patience, and utter control—and maybe that was it, too.  Hannibal was always in fierce pursuit of control, over everything he could manage.  To exert such a high degree of it over his own form that he could hold himself still enough to appease one of the most naturally flighty creatures would be quite a triumph over his own body, from his muscles down to his rate of respiration. 

“You could just go ask him why he did it,” Barney added, breaking the silence Will hadn’t meant to let stretch. 

There were reasons he didn’t really have human friends, other than Jack, and Bella.  He wasn’t sure most people would have called them _friends_ , either—in another’s life, they’d probably have been low tier enough to be relegated the rank of acquaintance.  He wasn’t very good at consistent, normal conversation.  His mind ran away with him too much. 

Barney, at least, didn’t look troubled.  She was smiling. 

Will pushed himself up, dusted his hands on his shirt as he stood.  Indents from the grass lingered in his palms, zig zigged little troughs pressed into his skin.  “Did you ask why?”

Barney shrugged, and he could read her _no_ in her eyes, the tilt of her neck.  “Same reason kids always want to stop and feed horses, even though the horse can pull up the grass just as well by themselves.  Because we can.  There’s something nice about being able to do for someone else.” 

 _Was_ it compassion, to feed a horse, or was it simple fondness?  Was it amusement?  A little power and pride in knowing you could teach them to come to you, knowing they’d take it?  Did it all go back to the instinct to tame, to possess, and if it did…was it a human drive, to tame the wild, or could parasapients have it, too?  It was a little startling to realize he’d never considered that they might, but there was much he’d only recently broadened his mind to.  In so many ways, compared to human behaviors parasapient behavior was wild and animal in comparison—though what was ‘animal’ an what wasn’t was goverened only by the human expectations he’d been raised with.  Parasapients, in general, were more openly affectionate, more honest and open, too, with their wrath.  Did that make them unevolved?  Was the urge to mask and lie such a mark of intellect?

His head was full of far too many questions.  As he approached Hannibal, he forced them into silence, a low buzz reduced to radio static. 

The bird was poised to leave, the final strawberry held between their beak.  Though Will was careful in his approach and still a few feet out, they clearly weren’t taking any chances.  Rather than eat there, they kicked off from Hannibal’s wrist and flapped hard out and up, rising over the over field and along it.  They came to rest, finally, on the breeding shed, a distant little figure dipping their head to deposit their prize between their toes. 

“That’s an interesting friend you have there,” Will said, unsurprised when Hannibal didn’t startle at his presence.  He’d been quiet, but surely Hannibal had smelled him coming. 

“I’m not sure whether they would consider me a friend or an obstacle to be overcome in pursuit of what they want, but yes, they’re interesting.” 

“They’d have to be.  You wouldn’t invest so much time in someone that didn’t interest you.” 

“Quite.”  Hannibal’s mouth turned up, a smile that broadened when Will came closer.  “Dr. Chilton saw it differently.  He happened by while I was practicing, before the bird had become bold enough to take from my hand.  He was very determined in chasing them away, and in informing his visitors hunting wasn’t allowed on the grounds.”

Will could just imagine it, Chilton’s self-righteous sleaze oozing from his pores, all graciousness to the visiting buyers he assured wouldn’t have to watch the nasty, wild alpha snap the neck of a songbird.  Any fool watching him could have seen the truth, but Will couldn’t resist needling at Chilton’s absurdity just a little, humor blunting his words for Hannibal’s sake as soft as felt.

“That’d be a hell of a long game.  Or were you planning to stretch the hunt out until you had a few more takers?” 

“If I were hunting, Dr. Chilton would likely be the first to know,” Hannibal answered, a glint of teeth in his smile, his words, cold and fine, limned in steel.     

Will had never been afraid of him, and he wasn’t now, but the rapidity and certainty in his response brought a chill to his spine.  There was no doubt there, no hesitation.  Will had struggled to imagine Hannibal snapping the bird’s neck, but he could see him snapping Chilton’s.  Easily. 

Will quelled the urge to look over his shoulder; there was no one but Barney, and she wasn’t listening.  If she had been, he wasn’t sure he would have worried.  “That’s big game.” 

Hannibal’s head tilted, the black of his eyes colder than Will had ever seen them.  “Game implies I find him palatable, and I would not.  There are other reasons to hunt.”

Numerous ones, and Chilton had given Hannibal several.  The prospect of Chilton’s deal with Verger pressed on the back of Will’s mind, like nails hammered through wood.  If Hannibal ever moved on Chilton, and failed—

Nausea spiked in Will’s stomach, and he reached for Hannibal’s arm, only just catching the soft inside of his elbow.  “Hannibal—“

“No; I’m not that foolish.  But, if the opportunity ever presented itself…there’s no harm in being prepared.”  Will wasn’t sure how to answer that, felt relief and an odd tickle of shame when Hannibal didn’t give him time to, but nodded toward the bird instead.  They stood as still as a weathervane, black at this distance against the blue of the sky.  “It was never a hunt, but you know that.”

“I do.”  Belatedly, Will realized he hadn’t let go of Hannibal’s arm.  He stepped forward, expanded the contact rather than releasing, his thumb tracing the soft crease where his veins lie beneath.  “You wanted to see if you could.  If they would…”  Here, next to him, the pieces fell in place easier than they had a distance, like it was all simpler to work with the raw material under his fingers.  “If you were too much a predator, or if they could trust you, if you wanted them to.  If you could…be safe, when you choose to be.” 

“In part.”  Hannibal exhaled, his eyes fixed on the horizon.  Because he was looking, Will caught the flare of light returning to his eyes, the darkness Chilton could bring out of him sublimated by fierce desire that couldn’t be held.  By the time Will could bring himself to follow his gaze and find the bird, they were long distant, flapping away toward the countryside. 

“And there you have the other part,” Hannibal murmured, so thick that Will’s throat seized.  “I like to watch them fly away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who's reading. You guys make my day, :D
> 
> This will be back the week of the 30th....also as fair warning I'm going to be out of town quite a bit during the month of August. I'm doing my best to be enough ahead that this won't affect you at all and posting can continue on its typical schedule, but it's posssssible there may be a posting week or two with just one chapter. I hope not, but I wanted to warn you just in case as things are gonna be pretty busy lol 
> 
> ...there's also some pain incoming very soon, but shh. You can survive it XD
> 
> Final fun fact- 
> 
> The bird scene in this chapter was inspired by the scene in the book Hannibal Rising where rather than eating them he frees a cage full ortolons and tells them to fly far away and stay all season to keep from being eaten. Nearly broke my damn heart, and it seemed so perfectly fitting for this verse I had to include a variation. <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...for those of you who might have been getting impatient for a little more action, I present A Large Step In Some Direction. XD

While Will had Hannibal’s medical file, he’d taken the opportunity to make a list of names.  He’d kept it by the side of his bed, written on hotel stationary with a long dried ring from the time months ago he’d used the notepad as a coaster.  He’d been most eager to take down the names of vet students he’d heard Hannibal mention, but he’d scribbled down any others he could get, too.  Anyone who’d known Hannibal when he was younger could be useful to him—anyone who might have cared for him, anyone who might have learned something. 

The last few weeks he’d let it sit, content for a while to continue working his way through Hannibal’s history in the records he had available, but now that he’d known Hannibal almost two months he’d just about reached the end of his slow study.  Undoubtedly he’d be coming back to those pages to revisit what he had the more he learned, but it was time to branch out, to see what more he could uncover, to make contact if he could. 

He’d brought his list of names to the kitchen table, and started digging into it before bed over an hour ago.  After he’d spent 30 minutes reading about Revana Mercier, he’d gotten up and made himself coffee.  He didn’t have to work tomorrow; he could lose himself in his list for as long as he liked.  If all of his results were as interesting as this first one, he’d likely be at it hours until his eyes failed him. 

After she’d left school, Revana had gone on to be an emergency room vet in Strasbourg, specializing in parasapients and avians.  Four years ago, she’d married a man she seemed to have met a few years before at a conference in Germany, Dr. Abelard Zimmermann, a specialist in veterinary neurology.  The two of them had moved two years ago to Tulsa, Oklahoma so he could take a position as head of the neurology department at the Greater Tulsa Veterinary Medical Hospital. 

Dr. Zimmermann seemed to be doing an excellent job and an impressive amount of research, and Dr. Mercier seemed to be an admirably excellent doctor with a myriad of easy to find praise from clients extolling her work on their pets, but it was the couple’s extracurricular activities Will found most interesting.  They were both outspoken on animal rights in general and parasapient rights in particular, vehemently opposing the move to repeal state legislation that had ruled parasapients must be clothed or brought indoors below certain temperatures.  Revana had in fact written a lengthy piece on the matter that hadn’t just made the local paper, it’d been run by Freddie Lounds, too.  Will could even remember reading it, and in skimming it he found the same appreciation for the author’s work he remembered feeling then—it was passionate, clearly, but she’d loaded it with facts her detractors couldn’t deny. 

Well cared for parapsapients lived longer lives, provided more joy as pets and worked longer and harder as working farm animals.  A parasapient intended to look after the horses couldn’t do so hardly as well if he lost feeling from frostbite.  The ability to bear temperatures humans showed intolerance to did not mean they could thrive under them, or even fully bear them for long.  The lifespan of working parasapients had increased over the last hundred years, directly due to improvements in care. 

All those were sound arguments, but he feel the undercurrent of inherent wrongness that buoyed them up from underneath.  A list of reasons to explain a necessity that should have required only reason.  There was anger in her writing, but she hid it fairly well.  Will could feel it, and within it the resonance of a kindred spirit.

The further he dug, the more interesting she became.  Her Facebook account was largely locked beyond the recording of major life events, but there were here and there tidbits of her work or her convictions, snapshots of her life unmasked.  In what seemed to be a convergence of all three, there were five unlocked albums of pictures—one for each of the last five years, each made in the summer, each tagged with the same location, though it wasn’t a word he recognized. 

 _Suaka_. 

The name was everywhere, on the albums themselves, in the comments, in hashtag form in the captions of the pictures.  The pictures themselves were largely bright and sunny, images of her and her husband and people who were obviously friends of theirs, almost all of the images taken on beaches or in thick foliage and with a variety of parasapients.   Many of them looked healthy and happy, and the longer he looked the more Will realized he could find some of the same faces from year to year—pups growing older, elderly parasapients at ease and laughing with Revana’s hands in theirs when the year before their smile had held palpable tension. 

Here and there, always marked with a warning before and after, she’d included photos of injuries she’d treated, commentary on old scars she’d discovered in examinations.  Rarer still were pictures of her and husband on the beach or on a dock alone, a parrot perched on her shoulder and poised to pluck a flower she’d woven into the natural puff of her hair, or sunscreen in the soft pink of her palm, her face a little blurred with laughter as she prepared to cover the brilliant red of her pale husband’s sunburnt back. 

The cold nudge of Winston’s nose against Will’s elbow jolted him out of the pictures, a sharp enough transition that he started and banged his knee on the underside of the kitchen table.  He swore, and softened when Winston licked him.  It was no wonder he’d come to get him; he’d been combing pictures two hours at least—three, if he was remembering the time right that he’d started.  It was 2:45 AM. 

The picture still open on his laptop showed Revana with a tiny parasapient pup in her hands, using her thumb to check the beginning of emerging teeth.  The caption was short, and full of warmth.

_So honored to help welcome little Ruth to life in #Suaka._

On the porch, with the dogs ranging out into the dark and the sound of katydids and cicadas cocooning him in the memory of easier nights, Will pulled out his phone and googled the word that had filled Revana’s albums. 

_suaka_

_noun, Indonesian.  Home, asylum, sanctuary.  A place of refuge._  

It didn’t answer all of his questions by any means, but it fit with what he’d seen, and what he’d felt looking at the pictures.  Somewhere in Indonesia, there was a sanctuary Revana volunteered her services for every year, a place not just for the abused but that constituted an emerging community, if his interpretations were correct.  He needed more than he could get doing muted research; he needed to talk to her. 

He needed, too, not to put too much thought into the raw delight that would bubble in Hannibal’s eyes at the prospect of swimming in crystal clear water, living in a place he need never be cold again.  There was no sense putting the cart before the horse; he’d intended to set Hannibal up to have the best life possible at the facility after Will left precisely _because_ the prospect of him ever leaving it for better circumstances was abysmally dim.  He’d never want to get Hannibal’s hopes up with the thought of a better life that likely wasn’t possible, but he didn’t want to get his own hopes up _for_ Hannibal, either.  The place looked interesting, and certainly worthy of research, but any…practical application wasn’t likely to extend to Hannibal.  The logistics would be nearly impossible.

And yet, it would linger in his mind, he knew.  He could deny its plausibility, but there’d be no getting rid of it. 

Will called the dogs back to him, counting tails as he ushered them all back into the safety of the house.  Buster was the last to come, his feet filthy, a matted, muddy stuffed toy Will’d thought he lost weeks ago hanging by an ear from between his teeth.  Will made him drop it at the door, and quieted the too quick buzz of his thoughts with wiping feet, checking ears and necks and armpits for ticks.  It was easy work, methodical and normal, and by the time he’d finished though it hadn’t taken long he felt ready to continue his research.  His head held less static, now, but that didn’t mean he felt ready for sleep. 

He also wasn’t sure he was in the right frame of mind to pen an e-mail to Revana, though, so put her on hold for the time being and moved forward, down to the next name on his list.  Bellamy Fontaine, the boy who’d brought Hannibal geometry and physics, who’d worked problems with him and discussed theory while he performed his test procedures on him.  It had gone on, Hannibal had said, until the professors chided him for it, but Bellamy’s work had been lasting—in the geometry book Will had gotten for him, Hannibal had been able to do the first three chapters without struggle, only the bright look of memory in his eyes, the light of pleasure at old gears beginning to turn. 

After graduation, Bellamy had gone home to Béziers and begun work at his father’s small veterinary clinic, servicing mostly farm parasapients and other livestock.  He had married three years later, and committed suicide two years after that.  His young daughter was 14 days old at the time.  According to the obituary, he had requested as final wishes that those who wished to remember him could make donations for his daughter’s future, or to Parasapient Voices, a French parasapient rights organization he’d been heavily involved in during his college years. 

The picture alongside his obituary presented a smiling young man with red hair and freckles, leaning on a walking stick and standing on a precipice, a sparkling river laid out below him, winding off into the distance.  There was no hint of pain in this picture, nothing palpable, but Will felt like he was choking on all that went unseen.  There could be no one factor responsible for this young man’s death—there never was, but it would have felt too bold a lie not to draw connections.  The boy had had a good heart, and he’d fought to do good with it, but he’d seen the underbelly of the world he’d grown up in, and found it unyielding against the press of his gentle hands. 

What could of those of conscience do, in the face of horror on such an unimaginable scope?  How could a mind change and absorb the truth of the world as it was, grasp the futility of any single effort to change it, without melting utterly beneath the strain? 

Will slammed his laptop and followed the spur of sudden nausea, bent double over the kitchen sink to throw up into it because he was sure he couldn’t reach the bathroom.  In a way, it was easier like this anyway.  He turned on the water to rinse the basin clean, let it run cold and stuck his head under it until the curls plastered against his scalp and water was in his eyes and the chill was seeping into his skin, soothing the hot roil of his stomach, the jittery heat of his nerves. 

He turned his head to fill his mouth with cool water, rinsed and spit four times until there was no taste in his mouth but the faint hint of chlorine in the tap water.  Around him on the floor nails clicked, too many feet to be a single onlooker.  Somewhere in his mass of skittering shadows, Anansi whined. 

“It’s okay, boy.  Daddy’s okay.”  It wasn’t, and _he_ wasn’t, but there was no one there to contradict him.  Still, the lie didn’t carry; he could feel their anxiety, as they could sense his pain.  There was no lying to those who put more stock in emotion than words, and dogs could do little else.  They were unflinchingly honest. 

With a last splash of water across his face, Will shut the tap off and dried his face and hands on the dish towel.  He took his phone but left his computer and the list on the table, unwilling even to handle them long enough to put them away.  He felt, suddenly, tired down to his bones.  He hit the lights, crawled in bed without even a nightcap, and called to the dogs.  On a typical night, he held to the rule of one dog in the bed per person, and there hadn’t been more than one person in his bed in a long, long time.  He took turns to leave no one out, but it wasn’t exactly restful to be in the middle of six heaps of fur, all struggling for space, all wanting it right next to him. 

This didn’t feel typical, and he didn’t particularly want space.  He felt instead in danger of floating out of himself, in need of being tacked down by claws and cold noses and the knowledge that if he moved too much Moonbeam would get huffy and want down. 

Against his own expectations, he fell asleep around 5:30 AM.  He might have slept well into the afternoon, if his phone hadn’t woken him.  He’d turned the ring on when he got home from work the day before, and it blasted loud in the silence, Jim Morrison’s voice bouncing off the surface of Will’s alarm clock to spill out into the room. 

Will flailed to reach it, only momentarily squishing a paw with his elbow before he managed. 

“Yeah; Will Graham.”  His mind was still catching up, his voice rough with sleep.  The alarm clock read 7:37 AM.  He’d barely been asleep two hours. 

“Will, you have to get here.”  Much like Hannibal, Barney had been reluctant at first to call him Will.  She was learning, but it wasn’t the warmth of growing friendship that brought his name out of her now.  This was panic, real and sharp, and Will came awake like a bolt had been rammed up his spine.  “Please; you have to get here now.” 

“Where is he?”  Will was already moving, nudging dogs and kicking blankets, finding Moonbeam by feel and lifting her up and down. 

“I don’t know; one of the sheds, it’d have to be one of the bigger ones.  These buyers came and they said they wanted to see him perform with a dummy, make sure he showed willingness to breed.  I told Chilton it’d have to wait till tomorrow when you were here and they said they’d wait but he said they didn’t have to, that if Hannibal was doing well enough to get his privileges back he must be safe enough to show off—“

“Fucking _bastard_.”  He hadn’t meant to interrupt but he couldn’t help it; the venom had built on his tongue with too much force to contain. 

“I didn’t want to help them but I knew if I didn’t get him to put his straightjacket on someone was gonna get hurt, and—“

“No, you did the right thing.”  Will pinned his phone against his shoulder as he jerked the first pair of jeans he’d been able to reach up his hips, kept it there as he fumbled with his belt.  “Find out where he is and meet me at the door if you can.  I’m on my way.” 

\-----

On the drive to the compound, Will realized one of two things had to be true—either Chilton was insane via a crippling degree of stupidity, or he knew full well there was a substantial chance this would end in someone’s death.  As supporting evidence for the first, he _had_ sold Abel Gideon to a buyer who’d made it clear he intended to keep him not in a contained facility but as a private citizen keeping a pet, to use him as a guard for his wife and children.  Chilton had plenty of evidence to know better than to do it, but the offer was large and the buyer was prominent.  Chilton sold him, though later it had come to light that the notes in Gideon’s file stressed that he was prone to unpredictable bouts of violence, from which he seemed to derive a great deal of pleasure. 

The case was settled out of court, the money given to the buyer’s sister-in-law, as she was the closest surviving relative after Gideon had slaughtered them all at the dinner table. 

Viewing Chilton from a distance, back when it happened, it had seemed he’d made a decision without reading up on his own charges, but now…

He knew full well what Hannibal was capable of, and he’d seemed to place value in Will’s efforts to work with him.  It was hard to see what he hoped to achieve by this, until Will considered that Chilton’s utter disconnection might go even farther than it seemed.  If he’d known what he was risking with Gideon, it stood to reason that even _human_ life mattered little to him—far less than the money he’d lost from the dip in Hannibal’s stud fees.  It wasn’t impossible, then, to imagine that another death might not be such a black mark for Chilton, now that Mason Verger had shown his interest.  Another death to Hannibal’s name would likely only increase his offer.  If, on the other hand, the venture succeeded Chilton could praise Hannibal’s new trainer, and have a witness to spread the word that he would again be available for live cover use, if not immediately then soon. 

In all respects, Chilton could potentially stand to gain by virtue of caring so little he could permit any loss. 

Though he was desperate to avoid being pulled over and slowed down, that grim truth spurred Will to put more pressure into the gas. 

Once there, he was hardly able to move fast enough.  At the best of times the compound was a maze he was only just learning with any reliability, but Barney was a godsend.  She’d put herself at risk, first calling him and now in meeting him, taking him right up to a door he wouldn’t let her enter.  Whatever had happened, or would happen inside, she didn’t need to see it, or be present for it, not yet. 

The second truth he’d acknowledged on his car ride was equally grim, and equally important.  Will would intercede because he could do no less, but if Hannibal wasn’t himself, there was a significant chance he could kill him.  That was a risk he was more than willing to take, but it wasn’t one he wanted to subject Barney to—or one Hannibal would have wanted to subject her to, he knew. 

How Hannibal might feel about killing him, now, wasn’t something Will had had the time to address. 

Outside the door, Will took seconds to center himself, his breathing steadying as he rolled up his sleeves.  He couldn’t fully divorce himself from the anger he felt, but he could wall it off, and seeing Hannibal would help him hold the rest.  He needed to be able to give Hannibal stability and safety, not rage. 

“For as long as you can, wait here until I come out.”

“Will—“

“If it’s been more than a half hour, open the door and check but don’t do it without Price or Zeller.  One of them should be on the way.”  He’d called, while he shoved his feet into shoes and grabbed his keys.  He’d given them little specifics, and shorter instructions.  He didn’t know what if anything they’d be needed for, didn’t know if it’d be human paramedics he needed the most. 

Barney teetered on the verge of following him in; he could see it in her eyes. 

Before he could let her think further, he took his own key, and swiped it across the door.  “I mean it; stay here.  I’ll bring him out.”  The door clicked, and Will jerked it open, and stepped inside. 

He had half suspected carnage.  The lack of it was almost as jarring as its presence would have been, so much so that it took him a moment to fully absorb the scene before him.  He stood in the outer frame room that made up this shed, gazing past the shoulders of men he didn’t know through an enormous picture window, a mountable omega stand-in dummy clearly intended to be the center of the stage.  In front of it, a caged omega humped the air with mindless need, slick-coated thighs trembling, their mouth opening and closing on cries that were eerily muted to the point of near silence behind the largely soundproofed walls.  At the opposite end a handler had backed so far between her guards that she had her hand on the shoulder of one of them, her mouth open as if she’d been for some time prepared to speak, and ill-equipped with words. 

In the middle, there was Hannibal.  He was in a straightjacket, which gave the odd appearance that he was clothed above the waist, and bare only below it.  His cock was limp, drawn in close along with his testicles though both swung against his thigh as he struggled, so detached from all notice of the omega in the box the box might as well have been empty.  The straightjacket was holding, for now, though Will could see rips at the back, places where he’d struggled so violently he’d almost made progress in freeing his arms. 

For something he’d worn a number of times without incident, it didn’t take any thought at all to know the answer to his panic had to lie elsewhere, and Will didn’t have to search to find it.  A single glimpse of him was enough, the thick black of a leather collar slotted in-between the frayed and dingy white of the straight jacket and the grey clasp of the muzzle he wore.  They’d used it to clip a tether from the ceiling to him, intended to be a method of allowing a trusted alpha the freedom to behave as naturally as possible during live cover or collection via a dummy with a sleeve inserted, as this was clearly meant to be. 

There was no possible way for Hannibal to ever behave _naturally_ under these conditions, not with his history.  Had the truth of his past been different, Will still would have been willing to bet his pride would have rendered him nearly as unresponsive.  Any… _performance_ would have been muted, perfunctory.  To think he could manage even that while out of his mind with panic and fear was utterly ludicrous. 

The buyers spoke as he stepped forward, though Will couldn’t have repeated a word they’d said.  His focus was singular, ever narrowing as he swiped his card again, and stepped into a room filled with the omega’s cries, overlaid with the harshness of Hannibal’s breath.  He growled in segments, fits and starts, the sound forced out around a throat clearly already nearing exhaustion, too monopolized by the effort it took him to breath.  His chest was heaving with it, the rise and fall of his shoulders unnaturally pronounced. 

“Dr. Chilton said—“ the handler started, her voice brittle with trepidation, breaking easily under the blunt force of Will’s interruption. 

“Get out.”  Through the corner of his eye, he could see that hers were wide.  “I don’t give a damn what he said; all of you get out.” 

“Sir,” the guard to his left said, stepping forward.  Based on the movement of his arm, Will would have bet he’d just placed his hand on a baton, or a taser.  Or a gun.  “He’s not able to hurt anyone just yet.  If we let him tire himself out—“

Will wheeled, his palm slapping hard against the door.  “Get _out_!”  The regret didn’t come in the same breath as the yelling, not even when the handler stumbled back as if he, too, were something to fear.  It spread with a tingle as the door beeped and opened, three of them leaving, a rush of air cooling Will’s skin as it closed.  Outside, with Barney, he hadn’t taken long enough to calm himself.  He hadn’t had the time.  His single, overriding thought had been to get to Hannibal—once he found him he’d known he’d need to keep his cool to help him, but that had seemed such a distant thought when he’d come in half expecting bodies. 

Now, here, with his own rage pounding against his ribs and Hannibal’s panic raking at him like clawing hands rising from the depths of hell, his equilibrium had slipped.  Before he turned around, he had to find it.  Will’s hands pressed to the door, his head hanging low between his arms.  Behind him, Hannibal sounded like a wild thing, riled and fear-blind.  Dangerous.   And yet, he smelled like Hannibal, and….of something else, too lightly reached by his human nose to properly identify, but in his thoughts it seemed a match to the itch of horror in his throat, beneath his nails, battling in his stomach.  The bitterness of raw terror, distilled, made sharp by Hannibal’s instinctive urge to fight. 

To defend himself.   Or, more accurately, to defend the pup he had been, little and largely defenseless, bound by a chain searing off his skin in a house on fire. 

The image of it came to him more clearly then than it ever had when he’d read the file, Hannibal’s eyes wide and dark and afraid, glinting strangely in the flickering light.  He’d made it out, and taken the fire with him, the embers forever banked, gleaming down inside his core. 

His anger couldn’t hold, not with the face of the pup Hannibal had been so present in his mind.  He exhaled, and let the last of his current measure of fury go with it, deliberately testing his own limbs as he flexed his hands.  The tension had left them, too; they could be as soft as he needed them to be, or as solid.  Under the circumstances, he was likely to need both. 

When he turned around, he went to Hannibal without hesitation.  Caught up in jerking to the right in an attempt to get a shoulder free, he wasn’t prepared for Will to get a solid grip on the fabric of the straight jacket.  Hannibal snarled, a ragged, rumbling sound, and Will hauled him in close enough that when Hannibal did try to throw his weight against him, all Will had to do to weather it was move with him. 

The shushing noises Will made under his breath were constant and automatic, near wordless but for the occasional murmur of Hannibal’s name.  He was too busy keeping balance, in dodging a jab of Hannibal’s knee that felt worryingly uncoordinated, and in unfastening one-handed. 

He wanted to remove the collar first, but the buckle was jammed too tight between the muzzle and the fabric, too hard to maneuver without letting go and trying to work it loose two handed.  If he did that, he’d have to catch him again, and though it might not be too difficult to do, it’d prolong the ordeal for both of them.  Muzzle first, then.  Risk and all.

There was none of the slow motion associated with sudden events, at least not at first.  The buckle came free underneath his hands, and Hannibal shook his head sharp and quick, like a dog killing a rat.  The muzzle flew free, and his head turned to sink his teeth sharp and hard into Will’s left forearm. 

There, time slowed.  It was strange, the surety that he had that he had _heard_ the skin broken underneath the tumult of their scuffle and Hannibal’s snarls and the omegas cries.  It wasn’t possible, but it felt real, as authentic as the half second when the cut of Hannibal’s teeth into his skin was so sharp and quick it didn’t yet hurt. 

There was no anger him, and no surprise.  On some level, _every_ level, perhaps, when he’d removed the muzzle, he’d known.  He’d come in here to settle Hannibal or die trying, to prove to both of them that he could.  He hadn’t said it in so many words, but the truth had hung suspended in his chest all the same.  It didn’t feel under threat, not even now. 

The pain hit with enough force to draw his own mouth into something that might have looked a mirror snarl if Hannibal’s mouth hadn’t still been full, but Will gritted his teeth against it, and kept his wits.  He’d been taught years ago that when bitten it was never wise to yank away, to always instead push _towards_ the teeth.  Pulling ripped flesh; pushing often saved something, even if the benefits noticed were only slight.  A little skin, a little muscle, a little pain. 

It helped him, too, that he could now reach the buckle of the collar, his fingers fumbling fiercely with it until he tugged the strap free.  To pop it free of the tine he had to first pull it tight, and no amount of coaxing could have quieted Hannibal for that.  His teeth released, a sharp and wild sound escaping him as he almost turned toward the buckle, changed direction almost immediately to seek more vulnerable skin. 

Will was more prepared, this time, and almost finished with the collar.  He reacted as best he could, his palm shoving up hard under Hannibal’s chin, slipping on his own blood and knocking Hannibal’s teeth together more roughly than he meant to.  He heard the clack of it, felt the pressure as he gave one final tug on the collar to bring it free.  It swung out with the momentum, arcing wide to ping against the omega’s glass box with a distant sound.

Released of his tether, Hannibal tried to press his advantage.  He lunged, not just with his teeth but with the force of his body weight behind him.  It crossed Will’s mind to try and sidestep, to trip him, but they were too close, too entangled.  Whether that was true only of their limbs or on a far deeper level Will couldn’t have said, but he took the only choice he felt he had, dug his hands in for a solid grip on the straight jacket, and fell back. 

With little time to turn them, he took the brunt of the impact, but now they were on the ground, and Hannibal had no use of his arms.  Will’s vision swam, his ears ringing from the force of the impact of tile on the back of his head, but it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t roll over, couldn’t shake the dark spots free and get his hand in Hannibal’s hair to constrain the snap of his teeth. 

It was like that, both of them gasping, Hannibal heaving to throw him off, that Will worked harder to find the right words, to put voice to a plea that was all the better for coming unplanned. 

“Hannibal, _Hannibal_ , hey, it’s me, it’s me.”  In the rush of the words spilling off his tongue between them, hot and panted and raw, no clarification felt necessary.  “I’ve got you.  You’re safe, Hannibal; just listen to me and come back; I know you can.  Whatever you see, it’s not real, Hannibal; you know that.  It’s just you and me.  I know you can, Hannibal—“

There was violent pressure underneath him, against the hair that Will held pinned to the ground, and then, almost as suddenly, there wasn’t.  It happened so fast he almost missed it, but he was watching, and the recognition was right there in Hannibal’s eyes, first like a sleeper waking, then like a child, then a flash of the joy he always showed when Will came to his door.  No more than a sliver of it, far too quickly suppressed. 

His breath hitched, a furrow between his eyes for a moment when he licked his lips and tasted blood that made Will’s chest ache.  “Will?” 

Will exhaled and let go, rolled to the side to shift off of him and onto the floor, his fingers tight in Hannibal’s straight jacket to tug him along with him.  His face fit against Will’s throat as easily as Will had thought it might, his hand on the back of Hannibal’s head cradling where a moment before he’d held him bruisingly tight.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  Stay with me, okay?” 

Will felt the shudder than ran through him, from his scalp to his knees, everywhere they touched.  Hannibal pressed his face closer, and Will felt his mouth wet with blood.  Will closed his eyes, and breathed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week is massively busy, so for fair warning, it's still possible this may be the only chapter this week....I don't want that to be the case, though, so fingers crossed things go the way I want and you'll have a second one as planned <3 I love you guys!!


	13. Chapter 13

There was an odd peacefulness to the near silence they found themselves in—enough to make it feel like silence.  For the first moments after they came to a rest, the buzz that settled over Will’s mind as he pulled Hannibal close seemed to drown the omega out.  Against Will's throat Hannibal's breath felt hot, his chin growing sticky as the blood chilled.  It should have felt dangerous to have those teeth so close to the pulse of such fragile veins, but the change in Hannibal was so complete that for Will there could be no question of fear.  In a sense, this had proved Hannibal's safety towards him in stark fashion—the moment he'd come to himself, the moment he'd both recognized Will and gained conscious control over his limbs, he'd gone as limp and pliant as a scruffed kitten.  The immediate danger had passed. 

Hannibal was, however, in a great deal of danger of dwelling on this too fiercely—not to mention, the scattering of fallout that was likely to follow what had happened here, and which Hannibal would have as little control over as he’d had over his responses with the collar on.  Will would have his work cut out for him, minimizing the damage as best he could, shoring up for future trouble.  He needed, in fact, to get up and begin that work now, but it was one thing to realize it, and another to move.  Held against him, Hannibal was relaxing.  It felt good to keep him there, a welcome reminder for both of them of Hannibal’s safety, even if only for the moment. 

Still, it couldn’t last, not like this.  Will’s head was throbbing where he’d hit it, he was fairly sure he was still bleeding, Hannibal was still wrapped in a straitjacket, and there were buyers on the other side of that window he desperately needed to speak to before they got back to Chilton, if he was to have any hope of salvaging this situation.  Besides, he’d told Barney to be on the lookout for him within a half hour, and he’d called for a vet.  There could be no hibernating on the floor until this went away. 

Will’s sigh stirred the fine strands of Hannibal’s hair.  Rather than let go, the hand cupped behind Hannibal’s head disobeyed him, and slipped down to squeeze at Hannibal’s nape.  Hannibal only nuzzled closer in response, utterly silent but for the quiet draw of his breath.  His cheek pressed right where Will’s scent glands would have been, if their bodies were the same.  Watching similar behavior between two parasapients, he’d have had no questions how to interpret such deliberate affection twined with inherent submission from one alpha to another, particularly after a fight that had turned physical.  He would have had the words, and carried no doubt with them, but he wasn’t an alpha, and in no position to consider what it might have meant if he was. 

He could feel that categorical denial like a flimsy film over his own thoughts, so weak he could have punctured it with the barest force, so fragile he felt compelled to protect it.  He could hear his professor’s voice in the back of his mind, echoing off concrete walls. 

 _When you work with an omega, you have to be their source of safety.  Sometimes, if you’re close enough, they’ll see you as fitting the role of alpha in many ways.  That’s okay, but it doesn’t always happen.  You have more leeway, with an omega.  If you want to work with alphas, it **has** to happen, every time.  If you want them to listen to you with minimal force, you have to be the strongest alpha, so beyond question you could put together a family group without them at the head and they wouldn’t bat an eye.  If you can’t do that, then you don’t have control._   _If you don’t have control, they’ll challenge you every chance they get._  

Like it was with dogs, the need to be head of the pack, comforter and provider and arbiter of disputes.  He’d never had a problem feeling like an alpha to his pack or to the parasapients he’d looked after in the past; with his chameleon mind it had come to him naturally enough.  Before, though, it had never felt like this.  The coating of normalcy over the situation he was in felt so tenuous, so thin, yet breeching it was unthinkable.  Perhaps in teaching himself the truth about this species, in letting that breath of honesty in, it was only natural that the barrier between humans and parasapients become in his mind more a veil than a wall, still present but thinner than he’d ever imagined. 

Perhaps…

Will tucked in a little further toward Hannibal and kissed the top of his head, let the contact linger long enough to feel the warmth of his scalp, to breathe in his scent.  An gesture of comfort, one he’d offered Anthony more than once.  Bearable, explicable.  Beneath his palms in his mind, the veil held. 

Will squeezed gently at Hannibal’s neck before he began to extricate himself, his first movements glacially slow.  “Come on, Hannibal.  Let me get this off.”  His hand gripped again at the straitjacket, and he could feel Hannibal nod, moving with him, the two of them shifting carefully until Will was kneeling, unfastening with both hands. 

The straitjacket was soaked with sweat, heavy with it.  Even the sudden folding of the cloth as Will removed it and tossed it to the side sounded thick.  Hannibal hadn’t made a sound since he said Will’s name, but Will could see the flash of pain as Hannibal’s shoulders readjusted in the way his mouth dropped a touch open, the sudden turn of his head. 

To ease the hurt, Will pressed his hand against the ball of Hannibal’s shoulder, drawing him in close again to press his other palm behind him, against the blade.  “Easy,” he murmured, his pressure increasing, the heel of his hand rubbing slow circles to soothe the muscles there in case they seized up.  “I already called and talked to Price and Zeller on the way here; they’ll be ready to—“

“No.”  The denial was scratchy, as if his throat in the aftermath of such guttural snarls felt ill used.  “It’s normal; nothing’s broken.”  His left hand reached for Will’s arm, a soft noise of wounded frustration escaping on its tail when his hand refused to cooperate, his fingers too numb from the unnatural position his arms had been held in to grasp the way he’d tried to—not that his goal was in any way unclear.  The tips of his fingers came away from his attempt red, fresh from the bite on Will’s arm. 

It no longer bled quite so freely, but it was undeniably seeping, two half-moons of shocking red on Will’s pale skin.  It ached, a deep throb that wouldn’t be leaving any time soon, but looking down at it didn’t turn Will’s stomach half as much as the drawn expression on Hannibal’s face, too wounded and tight. 

“Hannibal—“

“They have to see to you first; I’m sure they can.  Our arms aren’t that different.  It felt—“  Hannibal swallowed heavily, his hand clumsily flexing.  “Deep.  I know it’s deep; Will—“

Though he’d looked away from the wound and from Will, he went both still and silent when Will caught his chin.  The tacky coat of blood there couldn’t possibly be helping Will’s cause, but he kept his hand in place and waited for Hannibal’s eyes to meet his. 

It wasn’t quick.  Unlike so many of the silences they’d shared, including the moment they’d had so recently on the floor, there was no ease to this.  It was too thick with Hannibal’s uncertainty, his distaste for what he’d done while outside his own control so overbearing Will felt nauseous with the strength of it.  Hannibal’s pride was enormous, and it was clear that this had shaken him, deeply.  This wasn’t a matter of losing control and killing a keeper he’d had a slight fondness for, this was…

How Hannibal would classify him, what word he’d put to Will and what he meant was beyond the scope of what Will felt prepared to consider, but he could feel the shape of it beyond conscious thought, beyond words.   It was raw, and deep.  Fragile by experience and nature, but increasingly rooted.  It felt no stretch to presume that if Hannibal had seen another parasapient do what he had just done, he’d have lit into them with unmitigated fury. 

Will’s free hand stroked Hannibal’s hair away from his eyes, slow and gentle.  “Hannibal, look at me.” 

He blinked twice, first, before looking up.  When he did, there was too little sorrow.  He had steeled himself, drawn together as much as he could of the face he put on for those who surrounded him, a mask Will had seen cracks in from beginning.  He’d seen less and less of it in the last months.  He certainly didn’t want to see it now. 

“Do I look angry, to you?” Will asked, deliberately soft, a forced narrowing of his perspective.  He had to begin to manage the consequences of what Chilton had done today, yes, but not at the expense of allowing Hannibal to burden himself with responsibility he didn’t bear. 

Hannibal inhaled sharply, and Will squeezed lightly at his chin.  “That’s a yes or no question, by the way.”

All things considered, it was a relief to see the hurt that he’d glimpsed before Will had held him on the floor come back to Hannibal’s eyes.  It was privilege to be allowed to see it.  “No,” he murmured, his tongue absently afterward tracing the edges of his teeth.  Tasting blood. 

“No.  That’s right; I’m not.  You didn’t do anything wrong; I could have been anyone.  If someone tries to hurt you, you have every right to defend yourself. ” He hadn’t meant to say it, honestly, but it was true, and now that it was out he wasn’t sorry he had.  “I’m furious, but it’s not with you, okay?  You have to understand that; I didn’t blame you for a second.” 

Hannibal’s eyes looked dangerously wet, though not a thing about his breathing had changed.  Still, he’d been through a hell of an ordeal, and the hangover from his own actions wasn’t likely to be kind to him.  Will had every intention of helping him through as much of that as he could, but not here. 

Will let go and stood, and Hannibal’s eyes followed him.  “We can talk about it after I get you back to your room.”

Hannibal nodded, still flexing his hands, working life back into them inch by inch.  “After they see to your arm.” 

Warmth wrapped around every slat of Will’s ribs, hot and deep, as if the core of him had been enveloped.  An internal embrace.  His hands ruffled Hannibal’s hair as he moved behind him, getting in position to help him stand.  “After that, but I’ve got to talk to these buyers first—don’t try to pull with your arms, just push with your legs.”  Not that Hannibal wouldn’t know how to stand with a straitjacket _on_ , much less how to do it when recently out of one.  The words where automatic, springing directly from Will’s desire to look after him in this state, rather than from any real expectation of need.  Aimless rambling from a worried tongue. 

Hannibal didn’t seem to mind.  He let Will help him up and lean him against the breeding dummy, stood quietly while Will fetched a blanket to wrap around his shoulders then went back to wet paper towels at the sink.  A quick glance outside the window had told him the buyers were still waiting, still watching.  There were two men and a woman; one of the men had had his eyes on his phone but the other two were still watching, seemingly intrigued. 

Intrigued was better than angry and gone, on the way to complain to Chilton. 

Will wiped Hannibal’s mouth and chin clean with the utmost care, so thorough and gentle that it startled him at first when Hannibal caught his hand to take the stack of towels from him as he withdrew. 

“I didn’t miss a spot; you can—“

The smile that had just begun to curl his mouth faltered as Hannibal brought the compress to rest lightly over Will’s wound, having already refolded it to render the underside relatively clean.  “You’re still bleeding,” he said, soft and seemingly matter of fact.  Will could feel the cracks below the surface, like veins in marble.  Hannibal’s other hand cradled the outside of his arm so he could apply gentle pressure, even across the surface. 

Carefully, Will covered Hannibal’s hand with his, letting his fingers slip between when Hannibal widened his so gradually it could have been a coincidence, and wasn’t.  Will felt as if own heart was caged and beating there rather than in his chest, trapped in the space between his palm and the fine bones of the back of Hannibal’s hand.  The beat was hard, too fast for so soft a moment.   “Thank you, Hannibal.” 

“It’s the least I can do.” 

There was a part of Will that told him he didn’t have time for this, but it had no hope of winning out.  There had been welcome stability in those words, and Hannibal was standing a little taller, too, his breath even.  Will could imagine no version of himself that could have been callous enough to pull away. 

\----- 

These were not normal buyers; Will knew that in a heartbeat.  This facility was intended to sell to government agencies that either didn’t have breeding programs of their own or who wanted to supplement—the Navy, the Air Force, the National Guard.  When Will had first come down to tour the facility and talk to Chilton about the job long before he’d accepted it, he’d met a group from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation there to look over and purchase four unspoken for pups for eventual use as aid in finding cadavers.  They sold to government contractors as well—and, Chilton had told him, occasionally to the governments of American allies looking for new blood for their programs. 

These were not delegates of the Colombian government.  They were too informal, not necessarily in dress but in their mannerisms, and there was something Will couldn’t put his finger on that set him on edge, though he wasn’t sure he could trust it.  No one had shown him a badge, or any other identification.  No one was in uniform. Still, nothing about this day had gone as planned; even with his particular mind he wasn’t sure he should be trusting judgments made on two hours of sleep and after calling Hannibal down out of a full panic. 

Even so, there was a measure of restraint in him when he held out his hand to shake the hand of a man who’d introduced himself as Santiago Castille.  The man behind him was the one who had been absorbed in his phone before, and he seemed no more interested in the proceedings now than he had been then.  Will was given no name.  He looked like an expat, and held himself with both casual disinterest and physical awareness, one hand gripping his wrist behind his back. 

Will would have bet money he was the security, and the woman—Ana Maria Gomez, with a grip stronger than Santiago’s had been—was a trainer, or in control of the funds.  She carried no briefcase, no notebook, no laptop, but her left hand rarely left its position resting on the phone in her pocket.  To the last, they seemed utterly unruffled by the display they’d witnessed, and that perhaps more than anything else was what had Will’s nerves tingling that something was off, here. 

What had just happened wasn’t normal anywhere, unless you were used to facilities off the grid.  Criminal organizations had bred, raised, and trained their own protection for centuries.  Occasionally, they bred their own entertainment, too.  Parasapient fighting was illegal, but so was heroin, and illegal arms.  Those dealing in one, or both, tended to have no qualms about dabbling in the third.  Will had taken a trip with an FBI unit, once, to help clear out the remains of a kennel that had belonged to a dangerous doomsday cult in Arkansas.  The sights that greeted him there had fueled his nightmares for weeks. 

Inside the breeding room, the omega’s cries took on a different pitch as her handler freed her, able now to provide her with a vaginal pacifier since her work as a teaser omega for Hannibal was finished.  It had wrenched at Will deeply to send him off with Barney, but for the moment there’d been no better alternative—this talk was one he needed to do himself, and Hannibal had settled enough that she could take him, easily. 

Will had used a roll of vet wrap from the breeding room to bind Hannibal’s bandage to his arm, more sentiment than practicality, but there was something soothing in the cool dampness of it against the heat of the wound.  The memory of the press of Hannibal’s hand reminded him where he wanted to be, and would be again when this was done. 

“As I said, Mr. Castille,” Will explained, his vague gestured toward the glass ending with his arms folded uncomfortably against his chest.  The bite mark throbbed.  “Nothing you saw gives a clear picture of the kind of stud Hannibal is, or what he’s capable of.  Under the right circumstances, I can show you that he’s got willingness to breed, and that he’s far from uncontrollable.  He’s highly intelligent, and from what I’ve seen it’d be astounding for him to be defeated in the arena.  I’ve only worked with him a little over two months—“

“And yet he listens to you, with a deference I could hardly believe.”  Santiago’s Spanish lilt was smooth as silk, a taste of culture and ease in his bearing that matched the glint of precious stones in his watch and seemed jarring against his pressed but informal lurid lavender shirt, sleeves rolled haphazardly, buttons open further at the top than Will would have worn.  The omega wailed, and Santiago nodded toward the door.  “Would you step outside with me a moment, Señor Graham?”   

Will followed, just far enough to lean against the cinderblock wall of the shed.  It was still early morning, the sun just beginning to rise high enough to burn off the dew.  Will declined the offer of a hand rolled cigarette, and waited in patience while Santiago took two drags, slow rakes of his eyes studying as much of the compound as he could see from here, taking it in. 

“You said,” Santiago paused, made space for a third drag, and held it.  The smell of tobacco reminded Will of the docks, of his father’s customers and how the mints they fished out of their overalls to hand him often tasted like the smokes they kept in the same pockets.  “That I saw nothing to recommend Hannibal today, but you’re quite wrong.  What I saw you do…”  He chuckled, the reverberations full of genuine surprise.  “I read one of your books, once.  I never asked my trainers to do the same because I considered your methods….too soft for the sort of creatures we raise.  Now, I am rethinking everything.” 

Will had hoped to be able to mediate the damage, salvage the situation.  He hadn’t dared to hope he might have honestly _helped_ it, to a certain degree.  His exhaustion was creeping up on him, inching higher up the back of his neck and making his eyes itch like mad, but he tamped it down, and promised himself a coffee on the way back to Hannibal’s room. 

“Alphas don’t require a heavy hand.  In fact, in my experience it’s just the opposite.  Every now and then you might have to get a little physical—“

“As you did, masterfully.”

There was nothing _masterful_ about winning a hand to hand fight against someone in a straitjacket, so Will let that compliment go, and pushed on.  “—if you’re having to get physical regularly, they don’t respect to; they don’t accept you.  If they don’t, you’ll never be working _with_ them, you’ll just be trying to punish and outsmart them.” 

“The basis of traditional training, as I understood it.”

“Several decades ago, maybe.  Too many people still haven’t gotten the hint.”  Santiago inclined his head in concession, and Will took advantage of the quiet, and the implied approval, pushing off from the wall to pace in front of him.   “You like what I did, so give me a chance to show you what Hannibal can do when he isn’t handled incompetently.  Trust me; you won’t find a better stud to improve your line.” 

Santiago tilted his head, the salt and pepper patch of grey at his temple looking brighter as it caught the sun.  Will was reminded of the silvering in Hannibal’s hair, the sheer _softness_ of it.  Where Santiago’s looked almost dyed to give an air of age and wisdom, Hannibal still looked a panther in his prime, just barely beginning to show signs of aging well.  Like good whiskey, poured into a seasoned barrel. 

“I like you, Señor Graham.  I like your Hannibal, too.  I’d very much like to see what he could do unrestrained.” 

Will’s soft huff didn’t quite sound like laughter, but it came close enough.  He extended his arm, illustration though the wound was covered.  “I’d think this would have given you some fuel for your imagination.” 

Santiago shook his head, cigarette hand waving liking he was shooing flies.  “No.  A horse will kick, if you walk behind him and he doesn’t know you.  I don’t want to see him kick; I want to see him fight.” 

It was a fair question, though it made Will all the more certain there was nothing official about these buyers.  Representatives came to area previews put on for their benefit, and sometimes they requested to watch training matches, but this was far more direct.  He didn’t want to know that Hannibal could handle himself; he wanted to know that Hannibal had a distinct capacity for violence—one that could be controlled.

Will positioned himself fully in front of Santiago, blocking much of rising sun.  “It might could be arranged.  You want to see him fight; there’s things I want, too.  The first—“  his voice rose, carrying him over the look of piqued interested in Santiago’s eyes.  He wasn’t ready to be interrupted.  “—is that it’ll be a match with no blood drawn.  They only go until someone is obviously pinned, and they both show restraint.” 

“Easily granted.  I’ll use my own boy; he’s well trained.” 

“I want a day to rest him.” 

“Of course.”

“I’m not counting today.” 

“He’s something of a pet for you, isn’t he, Señor Graham?”  It could have been an accusation, but there was humor in his mouth, and Will knew he could push a little further, take a little more.  For the sake of that, he could let that statement slide, no matter how it rankled. 

“I’d appreciate it if you’d make a point to tell Chilton what impressed you.  Not his stunt, but Hannibal himself.  My work, if you have to list any other factor at all but I’m fine if you leave me out. “ 

“I’ll tell him.  I’m ready to place an order today, but I may increase it.  I’ll tell him that…”  he held out his hand, ready to shake on a deal that tasted only vaguely rotten in Will’s mouth.  “I’ll make an order for 30 straws, but if Hannibal wins, I’ll make it 50.  Do we have a deal?” 

He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he’d come out of this situation expecting to have to fight tooth and nail to back down a furious client.  That he hadn’t had to was nearly a miracle—that this man was ready to place such a decently large order for frozen semen already was an utterly unlooked for boon.  Doing this to keep it wouldn’t sit easy on him, but he could do it.  Hannibal could do it.  And after, Will could do his best he could in what time he had to find out more about who Chilton was dealing with on the side, and how in the hell he might find a way to prove it. 

Will took Santiago’s hand and shook it, firm enough to make the muscles in his fingers twinge.  “Yeah.  We’ve got a deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than originally intended, mostly because I decided the scene that follows it just couldn't be cut up since it worked better as a whole. I'm sorry this one's a little shorter, though <3 
> 
> I can't say enough how much I truly appreciate you guys sticking with this. It's such slow going on the romance- ironically, probably slower than I would read except in the rarest of circumstances, lmao I promise, though, that they are baby stepping toward proper hannigram...you can see it a littttle here and you'll really be able to see a baby step next chapter that's even a little more well defined than this one. 
> 
> I'll be off at the beach for a week, but I'll be in and out, responding to comments and being so very grateful you all are enjoying this <3 I'll see you in a week!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first, I want to say I'm sorry that this is a day after the end of the 'week' when you guys usually get chapters at the beginning of it, and that it's the only chapter for this week. 
> 
> Because I know that I personally always appreciate context, too, I also want to give a little of it. After getting back from my trip, in addition to wanting to get something done for Bottom Hannibal Day, a member of my family who's already been in and out of the hospital for months has had some more severe problems. I don't need to take time away from working on this or anything like that, and I do believe this'll probably be the only week with one chapter, but just to...help explain that there's been a lot of time consuming things going on here, including me taking on her dog (wave to the senior puppy, everyone, XD)
> 
> WITH THAT BEING SAID *cough*, on to the important part. This chapter is a point I've been excited to share with you guys for a long time, so. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do <3 Thank you so, so much for everything!

Will had barely come halfway through Hannibal's door before Price was after him, crossing toward him with quick steps.  

" _There_ you are; I don't know what you've done to one of my best patients but he's refused to let me look at him until I see your arm first."  Over his shoulder, Dr. Price cast a look back at Hannibal, something in the rise of his eyebrows that was either disapproval or disbelief.  Both, more likely.  "He said you agreed." 

"And he's right," Will said, too distracted to immediately elaborate.  Past Price, Will's eyes were first only for Hannibal.  He looked about as tired as Will felt, but he was holding it well.  If Will hadn't known him like he'd come to he would have missed it, but it was there in the corners of his eyes, the set of his shoulders.  Undoubtedly, they still pained him, likely greatly.  Will didn't anticipate he'd make a single sound of protest, but he'd be making sure Hannibal's pain was accounted for all the same.  His ability to disregard it didn't mean he didn't feel it.

Will held his arm out to show Price, his right hand carefully peeling at the tape.  "I did promise, but I'm not sure how much you can do for it.  I mean, it shouldn't be too different for you but other than a bandage-"

"Jesus _Christ_!"  Price's grip on his arm came just as sudden as the exclamation, sharp and tight on his wrist.  In the corner of his eye, Will could see Hannibal's head turn, looking away, and he wished like hell Price could have done this somewhere else.

The compress had swung free, exposing the wound to view.  It wasn't bleeding, now, but it looked angrier than Will remembered, red and puffy around the edges with swelling.  Hannibal hadn’t been wrong; it was deep.  Still, there was no muscle hanging free, no glimpse of bone.  It could have been much worse. 

“It’s not that bad,” Will said, his near wince hidden in the quick blink of his eyes as Price snapped on a glove and began to feel at the edges.  “Really, it’s—“

“If I had a parasapient with a bite like this, I’d want to keep them for treatment and observation for at least 24 hours, so why don’t we take my judgment on how bad it is?”  Without looking away, Price felt in the supply bag behind him on the table and rummaged until he produced sterile wash which he used immediately, flushing a little blood and bits of paper towel and skin free. 

Hannibal still wasn’t looking, but he stood stock still.  His ears couldn’t have been more obviously attuned to the conversation if he’d had more physically demonstrative ones to prick and swivel in their direction.

Eager to be alone with him, Will shifted his weight.  “I don’t have 24 hours to kill, so we’ll go with my judgment.  I’ve had worse, just…patch it up and get me some antibiotics if you can.  It’ll heal.” 

Price’s thumb dug in a little bit as he manipulated Will’s arm, tilting the bite to different angles to make sure he’d seen it fully.  His exasperation was there in the pressure, and the speed.  “You do realize I’m not actually your doctor?”

“I’m not allergic to penicillin.”  The touch of humor was sharp, but Will could see faint ripples of its reach in Hannibal.  As if he could feel Will’s eyes tracing the decreased tension in his shoulders, he looked up to meet them.  With that contact made, and held, the tension dropped further.

“Hilarious.”  Price was deadpan, but not angry.  If anything, there was worry in his hands.  “Who the hell were those guys?  Who asks for a breeding exam on that short notice?  He could have been booked.”

“I was hoping you might have a better idea.  They claim they’re Colombian government.  If you believe that, though, I’ve got some swampland in Florida to sell you.” 

If he hadn’t been looking, Hannibal’s flash of confusion would have gone unnoticed, hidden by Price’s snort of laughter before he turned to rummage in his bags.  It was there, though, and a reminder both of how much Hannibal had to learn, and the internal, personal work Will had still before him.  He’d given Hannibal an unspoken greeting, but his conversation with Price had proceeded as it would have if they were alone—or, talking over and around a presence with no mind for the conversation. 

That wasn’t Hannibal, by any stretch, but he was used to restraint in the company of multiple humans.  Even without the events of this morning, it would have been up to Will to engage him, to encourage him. 

Will tilted his head, craning far enough around Price’s shoulder to make his inclusion obvious.  “Have you never heard that before, Hannibal?”

He shook his head slowly, shifting forward until he stood close enough to watch Price’s work on Will’s wound with rapt precision.  “As I understood it, Florida is full of swampland.” 

“And retirement communities.  My parents live in one the size of a city; did you know—“

Before his tangent could stretch too far, Will stopped Price with a brush of his hand against his arm.  “It is full of swampland, but that’s only useful as is, as habitat.  You can’t build on it; you can’t make money off of it, but people did just that a long time ago by selling it to people gullible enough to think they could make it work.” 

Hannibal’s soft noise of understanding was gratifying, the pensive look on his face present that he always had as he filed away new information.  It was embarrassing to him not to know, every time.  The more he learned, the more at ease he felt.  “As gullible as Chilton must expect you to be, to believe this group legitimate when they arrived with such little warning.” 

“Exactly, but it’s more than that.  The way they spoke to me, the way the group presented itself.  What they wanted.  Speaking of—“  Will’s breath hitched, the sudden flash burn of rubbing alcohol being squirted directly onto his wound shocking him silent.  Rather than curse, he bit the back of his tongue, and pushed on.  “—I made a deal with their leader so he’d make it clear to Chilton he’s interested, but not in anything Chilton’s done.  You’ll have to fight one of his parasapients the day after tomorrow, a quick match, no blood.” 

Hannibal nodded, his back straightening.  “Understood.”

“I wouldn’t have made that choice without you, but I had—“

“It’s fine, Will—“

“ _Neither_ of you—“ Price interrupted, talking over them both and matching it with a look between the two of them when they’d quieted.  “—are capable of making that decision before a medical clearance after what happened today.” 

His care was appreciated, but Will would have lied to say it didn’t prickle something inside him at the insinuation that he’d have sent Hannibal out without being certain he’d be well enough to do it.  He swallowed, and squashed it.  “He’s tired; he needs a hot bath and plenty of rest but I don’t think he’s done any real damage.  Maybe a pulled shoulder at most but—“  Hannibal’s head shook, and Will held up his free hand to hold him off, “—but he seems alright.  You’ll see when you look at him.”

“I’m still looking at you.”  The fire burn of the alcohol was fading, the shine under the light fading along with it as it dried and left raw skin behind.  “One thing I can say, Hannibal—you don’t do things by halves.”

"I don't think you can stitch it," Will said, unwilling to step on Price's toes but equally sure he wasn't wrong and eager to change the subject.  Bites rarely stitched well, in his experience; they usually needed to heal from the inside out.  He'd have a scar, undoubtedly, but so far as scars went this wouldn't be one he lamented bearing.  It wasn’t to imagine that in the future he’d likely be glad to have it, for the reminder it gave him, for the chance to take a little of Hannibal with him wherever he went.  Though he’d told himself months ago to keep it in mind when he came here, the thought of their separation grew more painful, now, every time he imagined it.

Price shook his head, still examining the edges.  "No.  It needs to be bandaged, and it needs to _dry_ ; why you covered it with sopping wet—“

"Then bandaging it should wait."  Will cut him off, both to throw up something of a shield for Hannibal's pride, and to stop him before he started doing it.  "You need to check Hannibal, and I want to take him for a bath before I speak with Dr. Chilton.  It’ll get plenty wet then.” 

“That’s not necessary,” Hannibal murmured, dark eyes watching him from beneath his lashes, his eyes half lidded.  The wanting was there, and in the squeeze of his hands against the table where they’d come to rest on either side of him.  Quiet wanting, for the quiet peace they’d begun to find with each other. 

“It’s not necessary, but that’s not going to stop me.” 

Rather than bristle at Will’s firmness, Hannibal’s fingers against the table uncurled with relief. 

\-----

The bathing room was long and narrow, and tilted inward on either just enough that walking into it always felt slightly disorienting.  A long drain ran down the center, designed to catch the water dripping off the parasapients as they stepped out of the tubs en masse during peak bathing hours.  For now, it was empty, and silent, the schedule clear for three hours.  If it hadn’t been, Will would have risked walking him to another building to find the quiet they both needed.  He had to confront Chilton, and he planned to, on his own terms, but this had to come first.  Hannibal had to come first. 

Whether he’d have said the same a month ago, he wasn’t sure.  It didn’t seem worth considering. 

With the caffeine from the coffee he’d snagged and near chugged on the way to Hannibal jangling in his veins, Will no longer felt in danger of drifting, but the low and constant internal nudges that kept him moving felt odd, and almost as exhausting.  Even without the mental and emotional toll to consider, he hadn’t felt this worn thin since graduate school.  The door sounded unnaturally loud as he closed it, the snap of the lock echoing as he flipped it into place. 

Will led Hannibal past the first square tubs still damp from early morning use to choose a dry one near the center, where he sat down on the edge to turn on the water.  He wanted it hot, not unbearable to keep his wrist under but about as hot as he would have been willing to immerse himself in.  With a resting body temperature a little higher than humans, parasapients tended to prefer to be kept warm.  Hannibal, he knew, preferred it more than most. 

The little square green, white, and black tiles that made up the entire room swam before him as Will stared down into the gathering water, the ripples blurring the colors until they seemed to swirl.  Outwardly, there was no pattern to the design that he’d ever been able to find, with color choice and placement seeming totally haphazard.  Cheaply done, placed at random for eyes that weren’t expected to be able to look for art. 

Anthony could have found it, he was sure.  Hannibal…if he asked, Hannibal would likely want to take it apart, deconstruct it and reform it, place the pieces in concert with a vision of his own.  The difference in finding art, and creating it. 

God, he was tired. 

The water was ankle high, and he reached out to Hannibal, breaking the silence they’d held since leaving Price.  “Hannibal, come here.” 

His hand settled into Will’s, and he climbed into the tub, turning his back to the faucet to give Will a good angle to stretch the leash out and tether him to the hook on the wall.  He was seconds from doing it; the motion of manipulating a leash so familiar it seemed natural…

But his harness was leather, and every immersion in water would damage its softness, no matter how often Will oiled it.  Besides, if he had doubted Hannibal would run from him before, he found the thought ludicrous now.  Not after what they’d been through this morning; not with Hannibal sticking close to him in dead silence like a shadow. 

Will unbuckled the harness, his breath seizing sharp and painful in his chest when Hannibal turned to look at him with too much unbridled shock to hide.  On an ordinary day, Hannibal would not have expected this.  After what he’d inadvertently done, he wouldn’t have expected it at all.  Will could feel his awe, his own stomach jolting with the sensation of rocketing up to dizzying heights of bewilderment in the time it took Will to withdraw the harness and lay it aside.  Despite what Will had said in the aftermath, Hannibal had clearly expected something to change, anticipated a palpable difference.  At the very least, he’d likely thought any chance he had for the freedom Will had hinted he wanted to offer him on weekends at home would be forever beyond him.

The truth couldn’t be further, and seeing him realize the full range of possibility still open to him transfixed Will so thoroughly that for a moment the sound of even the water seemed to fade. 

Hannibal blinked, tipped his head to bare the column of his throat, and the sound returned.  The rush of water, the counterpoint of Will’s heart, hammering faster than it had any right to.  There was no fear, no resentment in Hannibal’s gesture of submission, no sign it was made grudgingly or as a result to feeling bested and helpless.  There was power in this, like the low hum of building energy.  An eager offering, thrumming with life. 

Were he truly an alpha, there would have been no question as to his answer.  He could see it, in his mind, feel the echo of it in skin and muscle that had never gone through the motions in just this way but knew how they would feel—how his arms would wrap around Hannibal from behind, how to rest his chin across the exposed stretch of Hannibal’s neck, a gesture of acceptance and protection, the refusal to allow the offering of vulnerability to leave the one who offered truly vulnerable. 

A dance of behavior as old as time, still far more present in parasapients than in humankind.  As elegant at moments as the dances of grebes and herons, as necessary for group cohesiveness as the howling of wolves. 

For the sake of providing comfort and maintaining his position, his authority, there was a great deal Will could offer, and he’d never felt unable to do it.  He knew the steps, and he was prepared to look after those under his care.  With Beverly, he might have followed through—might have even with Hannibal if his head hadn’t felt so thoroughly displaced.  To be fair, though, he knew already that the heaviness in his mind now couldn’t be blamed on the knock against the floor, or lack of sleep, or any combination thereof. 

Hannibal was different; he’d been different almost since the beginning.  He was different, or Will was, or Will was different _with_ him.  Whichever was true, each or all had brought him to where he was, with the response his mind supplied playing out not as the motions of a caring alpha-substitute but as wholly genuine, as…more than he could promise, ethically or realistically. 

The desire to do it anyway should have been startling, but he’d been grappling with the nature of the differences, here, for weeks below the surface.  The veil he’d felt a couple of hours ago felt perilously thinner.  He couldn’t accept this offer properly, but he couldn’t reject it either, not even if he should. 

In compromise, Will covered the exposed stretch of Hannibal’s neck with his hand, still warm from testing the water.  It didn’t feel less intimate.  Hannibal’s throat fluttered with swallowing beneath his fingertips, and he pressed into Will’s hand with more force than would have come from drawing breath.  If Will’s choice had disappointed him, there was no sign, not in his body, and not in the air between them. 

The water licked at Hannibal’s calves, and Will drew his hand to the nape of Hannibal’s neck, squeezing faintly.  “Go ahead and get in the water.  It’ll fill soon.”  The shift should have broken the moment, and hadn’t—Will could feel a tenuous strand between them, now, stretching without snapping as he let go to slide open the compartment on the side of the tub wall where the bathing materials were kept.  Had he, in not choosing, still made an irreversible choice?  Or, was he only now acknowledging a tie that had begun to form weeks ago—in the pool or the breeding shed or Hannibal’s room the moment Will had offered him books.

He had written about, and talked widely about, the potential for bonds between parasapients and humans, but this felt wholly outside of his experience.  He could tell himself, now, to consider it again tomorrow, after he’d slept, after the heaviness of today had sunk further into his bones.  He could, and did, and knew he wouldn’t.  Tomorrow, he would cover this, and leave it to sit, to examine when he had to, or when he had little else of Hannibal left to examine. 

The far off future, after he’d said what he could, written what he could, and done what he could, and given whatever he might have had up in the service of his plans. 

“Will you come with me, to the demonstration?” 

Will’s head jerked up, distracted from the shampoo label he’d been skimming without properly reading.  They bought shit, for this place.  He needed to bring some from home.  “The fight I got you into?”

Hannibal tilted his head, considering.  “Did you offer, or did he ask?”

“He asked, so I know where you’re going with that, but I agreed, and I’m looking out for you.  That’s on me.”  Will nodded toward the slope in the tile, wanting Hannibal to relax as best he could.  The water, now, was well over his waist.  “Lay back.  I know you’re sore; we want to immerse your back and shoulders as long as possible.” 

Hannibal shifted, slipping low and stretching out his long legs.  A soft sigh escaped him as his head touched the tile, his shoulders squirming and readjusting with a decadence that made Will hurt.  It wasn’t hard to see that at least half his enjoyment came from the lack of a harness and clip jabbing in between his shoulders, a luxury he likely hadn’t felt in years, if he remembered its absence at all. 

Will gathered shampoo, soap, and a cloth and sat down again on the broad tile rim of the large square tub, leaned far enough that Hannibal could see him well without craning his neck.  “The answer, by the way, is that there’s no way in hell I’d get you into a fight and send you off to it alone.  I’ll be there, and I’ll make sure the rules hold.  It shouldn’t be hard; you just have to pin whoever he brings.” 

Hannibal hummed, non-committal.  The water had climbed higher, and he seemed to be relaxing properly into it now, though there were lines at his face that hadn’t faded fully since the incident, marks of lingering strain.  “If they aren’t Colombians, who do you think these buyers are?”

“Oh, they’re probably Colombian, but I think they’re drug runners, or they run a fighting ring.  Both, more than likely.  They’re willing to pay a premium, and Chilton’s trying to make a little on the side.  If I can prove it,”  Will shifted into position behind Hannibal, pressing on his shoulder to dunk him further into the rising water.  “I can have him arrested, but don’t get your hopes up.  I don’t think he’s all that bright, but I’m not sure he’s dumb enough to leave a paper trail, and I’m no detective.” 

“And here I was, under the impression the FBI was an organization built for detection.” 

His wry humor was such a relief Will felt it sink in like the unfurling of a flower newly exposed to sun, transforming in the wake of the dark.  Impulsively, Will flicked water at his cheek, laughter that was soft and genuine drawn out of him when it only made Hannibal duck fully underwater, soaking his hair. 

The levity was painfully short lived, gone already when he broke the surface, sliding high enough to reach out for the shampoo bottle—which Will declined to give him, picking it up and popping the top himself instead. 

“I can wash my hair,” Hannibal said, with a stiffness Will couldn’t place.  Lingering guilt and discomfort, or long ignored pride. 

Will’s fingers trailed down to the water, leaving ripples.  Hannibal’s eyes tracked them up, past his wrist to the bare skin of his arm—on this one, unbroken.  “I know you can.  Will it bother you, if I do it?” 

“You don’t have—“

“Will you hate it?” 

The ripples from the shake of Hannibal’s head traveled out across the water, meeting Will’s, blending with them rather than fighting.  “No.  Not at all.” 

Will’s fingers stroked through the wet strands of his hair, parting them and burying his fingers far enough to massage lightly at his scalp.  He was unsurprised but still pleased when Hannibal tilted into his hand, as automatic as a button pressed.  “Then just let me be a little overbearing for a minute, okay?” 

“You aren’t,” he replied, so soft a murmur that it wove between the sounds of water and the squeeze of the bottle as Will began. “You never have been.” 

For Will, there was an element of near ritual to this, a baseline of caring.  As a boy, when he and his father had brought a new dog home they’d bathed them in the tub first.  Getting them clean and ready for their new home was almost secondary to the chance it gave to check them over, an examination borne of budding love.  A bath was hands on, the opportunity to feel out the jut of ribs, lines of bone, to search with careful fingers for any scrape or any bump their eyes could have missed. 

His father’s hands had fit over Will’s, showing him how to feel the edges of a puncture wound too small to see, too hidden by fur, and Will had remembered, then, being smaller still, with the calloused roughness of fisherman’s hands turned gentle to sift through his little boy’s hair, checking for ticks after an afternoon in the woods.  Simple, and easy, and such a mark of true fondness, true concern.  He had done it for parasapients, for two girlfriends, and for a guy he’d sort of dated in college. 

The haze in his head was muddying perception, again, or the moment he was in was more reverent than the act had ever been before. 

He cradled the crown of Hannibal’s head in his palm to dunk it, took care to stroke the wet line of his bangs away from his eyes when he rose above the water again.  The shampoo was cold, but he warmed a dollop of it in his palm before sprinkling it with the heat of the water, and beginning to work it in, the lather rich, his fingers firm and kneading. 

Hannibal’s Adam’s apple shifted, pronounced with the stretch of his throat, the slick sheen of water on his skin.  “You forgive me far too easily.  I could have broken bone.”  As incongruous as the conversation should have been, there was relief in having it open again.  The draining of a wound, before it could fester. 

“You didn’t.” 

“The luck of angles, and your quick thought.  I would have tried again.  I could have—“

“You could have reached my throat, and ripped it out.  Like you did to Paul Momund.  Lean forward, Hannibal.”  Will shifted his grip, tilting Hannibal’s head to scrub at the fine hair near the nape.  “So here’s the question—does it bother you that I’ve forgiven you because you didn’t expect it and you _do_ expect a catch, or because you feel responsible even though you weren’t?” 

Silence lapsed, and Will gave him the time to do the thinking that he could feel churning within him, a low and grinding hum.  His hands stayed busy, kneading at Hannibal’s nape, working higher, massaging with knuckles and fingertips and the heel of his palm until Hannibal reached back to catch his wrist. 

Will let him take it, limp and permissive as Hannibal stretched his arm out over his shoulder and beyond until the back of his arm rested against Hannibal’s chest, and the bite was on display, red and wet and swollen.  Slowly, with infinite care, Hannibal’s thumb traced the arch of it, as soft as the brush of gauze. 

“It bothers me that I hurt you, and that…this isn’t a mark I’d have chosen to leave.  It’s unsettling how obvious it seems, now, that you may be not everything I thought but more I hadn’t considered.  I feel…suspended.  Close to trusting you more completely than is wise, and as ashamed that I don’t already as I am of this.” 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.  Not of something we’re both working for,” Will tilted his arm, unsurprised when rather than increase the pressure of his fingers, Hannibal moved with him.  “And not for this.  I knew the risk I was taking, and it was worth it.  I’d do it again.   I’ve taken a lot worse to gain a lot less.” 

As if to shield his new wound from past harm, Hannibal’s palm covered the bite, wet and warm and endearing.  “You’ve been bitten before?” 

“A few times.  The worst was a long time ago.”  The itch to elaborate, to illustrate built until Will tugged his arm free, gentle in his extraction.  His hands were far quicker over the buttons of his shirt, flicking fingers eager to outrun the chance to second guess.  There could be no harm, in this.  It stood to reason that it might even help him to see it, an old wound of far worse damage than he’d dealt. 

The urge to glance toward the door nearly overwhelmed Will, and though he refused to give in to it, to color this in a shade he couldn’t bear to face, he might should have.  It was no easier to catch the way Hannibal’s eyes tracked over his chest as he opened his shirt and slipped it back to let it drop, no easier to brand it with the ill-fitting stamp of curiosity. 

The old bite wound was on the same arm, covering the ball of his left shoulder in a gnarled mess of scar tissue that Hannibal rose up in the water to see.  The skin was sensitive there even after all these years, so much so that Will almost hissed at the heat of Hannibal’s fingers, hot from the water, and blood hotter than his own. 

The naked concern in Hannibal’s eyes swallowed him, drawing him to shift closer, to anchor his hand in the soapy strands of Hannibal’s hair and let him look his fill. 

“Who did this to you?”  Iron wove through the hush of Hannibal’s whisper, lacing it with as much danger as there was affection, and Will had no doubts as to his intentions.  If he’d ever met Thurgood, _his_ throat certainly wouldn’t be safe from those teeth. 

The revelation shouldn’t have made him smile.  Thurgood wouldn’t have deserved it, and that kind of possession shouldn’t be overly encouraged and yet….  And yet. 

Will’s fingers ruffled Hannibal’s hair, amused at the way it stood up stiff with lather.  “No one you’ll ever meet.  He was a big alpha, and I was being stupid.  His enclosure had a note on the front that said he bit without warning, but I disregarded it—“

“As you do.”  There was no smile on Hannibal’s mouth, but the words were nothing but fond, as warm as his hands. 

“As I do, but this time there was truth in it.  I usually do pretty well with just my judgment, but I was young, and I still had a lot to learn.  He came down hard on my shoulder, managed to gnaw at it pretty good before I could get away.  I was in the hospital almost a week.” 

Hannibal’s thumb pressed in, and Will shifted forward, his breath catching at the still-rough tug of scar and muscle.  It couldn’t, and didn’t, go unnoticed.  Hannibal’s fingers spread wider, almost spiderlike, feeling out the edges, places where thick tissue smoothed out to faint lines.  “It pains you still.  Inside, or on the surface?” 

Will shrugged, single shouldered.  “The skin feels tight sometimes, and it doesn’t feel all that great in too much sunlight.  All through the joint, if a storm is coming.  He took out a little muscle, and I probably don’t exercise it as much as I should.  It’s okay, though.  I’m right handed anyway.  Honestly, I usually only notice it these days if I move it wrong.”

Hannibal studied the lines as thoroughly as any of the equations Will had brought him, no nuance unexamined.  The rake of his eyes up and down again held the intensity of memorization, his focus holding even as Will’s thumb found his temple and rubbed, slow and soft, soap crackling beneath the whorls of his print. 

“You see?  It’s much worse than yours.  I won’t even feel that when it heals, and besides, I meant what I said.  You did what you should have, in a situation you shouldn’t have been in.  The choice to go to you…wasn’t even a choice.” 

“No fear for your throat?”  His voice was hoarse, as stripped as it had sounded on the floor. 

“None worth mentioning.”  It was enough; he should’ve stopped, but the feeling of owing Hannibal honesty was too great to overcome.  “I was afraid of what might happen to you, if you killed me.  How much harder you might take it now than if you’d killed me in the beginning when I was only a little interesting.  I get the feeling you’d classify me differently, now.” 

The sudden fierceness in Hannibal’s eyes was too bright to name, moreso when he had the chance to see only a flash of it before Hannibal was moving forward, his head tucking in.  His grip shifted to hold the blade of Will’s shoulder, and still the first stroke of his tongue against the scar was electrifying in its surprise, wet and warm and softer than Will would have believed.  Along the sensitive ridges of the scar, his skin prickled, an unusual newness to this touch with a texture and intimacy he hadn’t expected.  Those who’d shared his bed had usually left a perfunctory kiss, there, but not…

Not like this; nothing like this.  It was common enough parasapient bonding, demonstrative affection to soothe wounds old and new, physical and internal.  He’d felt it before on his hands, once on the inside of his arm.  This, now, should have felt as he had then, not as he had the first time he’d felt the brush of Hannibal’s tongue, and shoved his hand into his pocket. 

This might have been normal, with someone else, at another moment, in another life.  It might have been, but this wasn’t, and the pounding of something that felt like danger in Will’s ears reached a high enough pitch that he tightened his fingers in Hannibal’s hair, just enough to pull him back.  The scar was wet. 

Will’s throat worked, wordless for an irritating second.  “Hannibal—“

“I know,”  His breath brushed Will’s skin, close enough to chill the damp patch.  “You can take care of it yourself.  But you can let me do this for you, for now.” 

It had thrilled him the first time Hannibal threw his words back at him, and the jolt of pleasure now was no less vivid.  He was such a clever mimic, always learning, always folding in words and concepts he’d learned to what he knew already to form a larger whole.  There were moments that when taken whole felt like reflections on high battlements, held up and reinforced to protect Hannibal from the world he’d grown up in, but moments like this…

Will could feel no artifice in this.  It was pure, as undiluted as the glimmer in Hannibal’s eyes.  Hope made weapon sharp,  though he seemed to have no intention of using it to wound. 

Will felt wounded even so, but that wasn’t Hannibal’s fault. 

Hannibal was thorough, and Will drifted in limbo between the strange intoxication of this intimacy and the mire of his guilt.  The in-between state rendered his reactions sluggish, his body and mind at odds, but there would, later, be no telling himself he didn’t feel the shift when Hannibal finished.  The change in the angle of his head was clear, the more cursory nature of his final lick, just catching the faded edge of his scar.  It was one thing, to have allowed him that much, but he should have stopped him then. 

When Hannibal shifted his wrist, holding on as if he’d lifted something fragile, Will should have stopped him. 

Instead, Hannibal lowered his head to the raw skin left by his own teeth, and Will’s hand found the nape of his neck, tacit encouragement he felt compelled to give, and already knew he would reach deep at home with a glass of whiskey in his hand to explain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8/31/17 UPDATE-  
> Hey guys! 
> 
> So, I wanted to give you an update on An Approach to Academic Temerity so you guys know when you’ll have new chapters- and don’t get worried, it’ll be soon :) 
> 
> However, it will be not this weekend, but next week, so that means our every other weekly schedule will essentially just be shifting weeks. As I’d mentioned before, I’ve got a lot going on right now...please don’t worry because it definitely isn’t going to stop me from working on this, but, that in combination with the fact that I’ve made some changes to this portion of the story since I originally mapped it out and that’s caused some unforeseen writing struggles, and the fact that Dragon*Con falls this weekend means it’s been a very overwhelming past couple of weeks. 
> 
> So, when faced with the prospect of giving you guys a single chapter for this week that I did not feel comfortable with, I’d much rather be able to give you at least one but hopefully two chapters next week that I do feel comfortable with. 
> 
> You guys have no idea how much I appreciate your patience, and your love for this story. It brings me more happiness than I could ever say <3 Thank you so much!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys <3 
> 
> As many of you probably already know from seeing my notes on tumblr/other fics, last September the family member I had mentioned in previous notes passed away. I'm okay, but it was sad and jarring and threw me off for awhile and after that point there's just been...life has been A Lot, for various reasons. It helps 0% that the moment of taking a break on this hit riiight after I had made some decisions in the last few chapters that changed my timeline/plans for this fic substantially.
> 
> The point of saying this now is that posting this chapter is terrifying. At this exact second I think I like it, but if I look it too long I'm afraid I'll start to hate it again lmao The story changes I made a few months ago I think were made for the right reasons but they left me with scenes I never intended to write and with as extensively as I planned this fic originally, having to veer it off into a slightly different course was much harder than I expected. Every single word has been difficult and writing is rarely difficult for me so when it is it makes me feel like something is horribly wrong. 
> 
> Maybe nothing is wrong with this, but I literally wouldn't be able to tell you for all the money in the world; this chapter has come too difficultly for me to see it with any kind of objectivity, but it had to happen because I love this story and it has to go forward. So. 
> 
> I really, really hope this is not terrible and you guys enjoy it, but because I am such a wreck over posting this I'm going to beg very nicely that if you don't like it, please don't ever tell me because I really don't think I could bear it and I also don't particularly care how stupid that may sound. 
> 
> I am 90% sure I'll be back to loving writing this and not wrestling with it very soon; just had to get over this hump. Those of you who have looked forward to this coming back, I'm so sorry it's taken so long and I owe you all a more sincere thanks than I could ever convey *hug*

Will reminded himself that as he left Hannibal, he’d promised not to yell.  Not outright, not in so many words, but Hannibal had caught his wrist as Will had moved to stand up from the side of his bed, and it was right there in the look he gave to soothe Hannibal’s concern—he would come back.  Today, and tomorrow, and every day he could manage it.  

He couldn’t keep that promise if he went into Chilton’s office guns blazing.  No matter how much he wanted to, he wanted to keep his job more.  If he got fired, Hannibal would have chiefly only Barney against Chilton, and a sea of hostility surrounding him that had yet to settle, despite Will’s best efforts.  Most of the keepers were terrified of him, and equally sure their reasons were accurate.  He faced darker specters than those, too, and there was no denying Hannibal would suffer a blow to be separated from Will, now. 

How deep that blow would cut and how much worse it might get the longer he stayed wasn’t a question up for consideration.  In the moment, he had to work with what he had—the very real need to keep a fierce rein on his temper, or cause them both to suffer the consequences. 

Still, _still_ , he wasn’t about to muzzle his rage entirely.  He needed a job, but Hannibal also needed a voice, and Chilton had overstepped.  If he was careful, Will could balance his needs into swift retaliation.  The strike of a chisel, not a sledgehammer. 

To begin, he did away with formality.  Chilton’s office manager, Ms. Williams, was in the midst of reapplying her lipstick when Will walked in, her eyes on her work, her ears on the tapes he was having her review. 

_—now this bitch here, he’s a little underweight to carry a pregnancy to term, but he’s good stock and I think I can manage with him this time.  If you let me breed him half price and keep the pup, I’ll hand him over as soon as he whelps.  Doesn’t eat well, but I’m sure you can do something ab—_

The recording snapped off with a sharp pop, one Will recognized from his childhood.  An old tape recorder, decrepit technology.  Safe from hacking, but hard to secure.  The conversation she’d just cut off didn’t have the ring of an official source either—and if it was, they weren’t brokering deals according to regulations.  To keep the tapes, he would have a safe—

But Ms. Williams was rising, and now wasn’t the time. 

“Dr. Graham; if you’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Chilton—“

Will continued, long, bold strides without hesitation.  “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Dr. Graham—“

“ _Mr._ Graham, Ms. Williams.  You can go back to your review.” 

The double doors to Chilton’s office were thick, solid cherry wood.  Will’s knuckles rapped a solid sound against the right one as he opened it, the knock far more a nod to the absence of ceremony rather than a belated attempt at it.

Dr. Chilton reclined in his chair, his feet propped up on the window seat directly behind his desk.  There was a slight tinge of savage pleasure in the way his book tilted on his lap when he yanked his feet down and turned too rapidly, his bookmark spilling to the floor. 

"Mr. Graham!  If you'd like to make an appointment for this afternoon, I do have free time today, and we should discuss—“

Will's even strides brought him right up to the desk, no hesitation to mark Chilton’s speech.  His hand fell to the curving receiver of a landline phone styled to carry the look of a relic from decades past.  gilded along the edges around its rich navy, as overwrought as the man himself.  Will snatched it to his ear long enough to hear the dial tone, then let it fall from halfway down with a resounding clatter.  "Well that's a relief," he said, dripping sarcasm, utterly disengaged from Chilton's greeting.  "I thought the phone lines must be down.  You must have misplaced your cell phone too; is it at home?  You're welcome to borrow mine, if you have any other trainers you need to update.” 

True to his silent word, he wasn’t yelling, but there was venom in his eyes that he knew flew entirely unconcealed.  He hadn’t quite planned for that, but the sting of rage in his blood had been too sharp—it might well have been more disastrous to try and overcome it entirely. 

As it was, when their eyes met Chilton’s eyes were narrowed, but it seemed more severe irritation than dangerous anger.  Lazy affront. 

Ms. Williams shoved the door open the rest of the way, the heavy door creaking on its hinges.  “Dr. Chilton; I told him he needed an appointment, but he said—“

"It's perfectly alright, Ms. Williams.  I can handle Mr. Graham."  The tinge of disdain, there, glanced only off Will's surface, too unimportant to stick.  He'd known they weren't going to like each other from the first time they met; as long as his abilities kept Chilton's attention he didn't give a goddamn about keeping his good opinion.  "If anyone calls tell them I'll return it before I leave."

"Yes, doctor." 

The door closed, and left them both in a mire of mined silence.  Only tangible effort kept Will's fingers from curling into fists, and he wasn't a fighting man.  He never had been—or at least, not in any traditional sense.  He had, as a boy, tackled a classmate and punched their mouth bloody over an insult to his dog, but that was years removed.  His rage had always come out of him like that—sudden and sharp, rooted in his heart. 

Chilton kicked back from his desk, and rose from his chair a deliberate attempt at grace.  “Have a seat, Will.” 

Will’s knees didn’t even begin to bend.  “You made it crystal clear when I was hired that Hannibal would be my responsibility; I’m now his sole trainer.  If someone wants to set up a session, that should go through me.” 

“You’re in control of his training, to be sure, but at the end of the day—do you like brandy?”  Chilton gathered his decanter without waiting for an answer, pouring twice.  “At the end of the day, I’m director of this facility.  I can’t keep customers waiting due to staff schedules—“

“You know I would have come in; if you would have _called_ —“

“—and I can’t keep losing profit off one of my best assets, no matter how good he is.  I have to know if Hannibal can be fully functional.  If he can’t perform his duties…”  Chilton tilted his glass before he drank.  The look of exaggerated knowing in his eyes was sickeningly smug.  “He’ll have to go.”

The urge to slap the glass from his hands rose, and ebbed.  In that small span of time, Will let himself feel it, in the core of his mind—the smack of the glass against his palm, the shock in Chilton’s eyes, the rattling crash as it shattered against the bookshelf. 

Glass and brandy would ping off Will’s arm, both cold. 

Somehow, it had settled him just to imagine it.  His arms crossed over his chest to keep his hands at bay, though it felt now more a statement and less a reach for personal restraint.  Beneath the dressing Price had done for him, the bite wound stretched and throbbed.  There was comfort in that, too, that he was even less ready to examine than his own sudden propensity for violence. 

“If you’d wanted a demonstration of how _functional_ he can be, you wouldn’t have deliberately crippled him,” he said.  Will flexed his arm to feel the ache, to remind himself that it was alright to show, here, the grit of backbone, but not how deeply this had cut either of them.  He couldn’t expose more of Hannibal’s pain than utterly necessary to a man who’d seek to use it against him, and he couldn’t tip the full measure of his own without spilling Hannibal’s—they had become, in this, too closely layered.  “You set him up to fail, and you did it on purpose.”

The truth had been obvious to him on the drive, in the breeding shed.  It hadn’t grown any murkier between then and now, but though he hadn’t expected a denial, he didn’t expect Chilton’s nod, either.  Slow, and only once, but undeniably present, chased with the turn of his lips and a sip of brandy.  Will could feel something in his stomach turning on him, curling sharp and vicious.   

“Hannibal is an unpredictable beast, but ironically, in that very…wildness, he’s entirely predictable to a fault; I’ve written papers on him.  I know you’ve read them—at least, you did mention it in your interview,” Chilton said, snagged with a wry twist.  As if he’d caught Will out, as if he were a student handing in a research paper on a current topic on which he’d only read the abstracts.  He read Chilton’s papers long ago—read them, and marked his journal copies with slashes and dots of red.  Dots for his own personal disagreements and doubts, slashes for assumptions or extractions based on conclusions proven false.  Chilton’s laughter, now, was every bit as grating as his damned papers.  “I’ve no need to test _Hannibal_.  You’re the variable, Will.  All I needed to test was you.”

“And here I thought my interview finished up a few months ago,” Will said.  Try as he might (and he could not in all honesty argue he’d tried very hard), the retort carried far more bitterness than amusement. 

“We’re a working facility.  We can’t afford to keep anyone who can’t pull their weight, human or parasapient—no matter how good they look on paper.  I don’t need someone who can control Hannibal when he’s playing at sophistication.  I need someone who can control the beast.”  Chilton’s glass tipped forward, his smile widening.  “And you just proved you can.  A little worse for the wear, perhaps, but you don’t seem interested in filing a claim for workman’s comp.” 

The bite had been an accident, a mistake.  Hannibal had regretted it— _did_ regret it.  By all rights, hearing Chilton mention it shouldn’t have made him feel so damned insulted but he’d already moved to cover it with his palm.  Unthinking, automatic.

Instinctive. 

Will shook his head, the pressure of his hand against the wound before he let it drop steadying in its sharpness.  “It’s nothing; it’s fine.  It was my fault anyway.” 

“Maybe, but he had you, and you called him down.  Obviously, that’s not an approach that’s worked, and don’t think a few haven’t tried—I’ve seen video footage of at least a few of his kills.  They aren’t pretty.  You’re impressive, Mr. Graham.” 

As of yet, he held nothing on Chilton—or, as Zeller would have put it, nothing _actionable_.  He had no ground to stand on, no plausible threats to make.  None, at least, that he should.  His ears rang in the quiet, too full of the noise of unwanted congratulations.  The slosh of liquor, the clink of Chilton’s glass. 

Will leaned in to take his own, smoothly, pausing with it suspended over the middle of Chilton’s desk—almost an invitation, not close enough for a toast.  “If you want to test me, Dr. Chilton, that’s your prerogative.  I’d appreciate a little warning, but I’ll pass.   As a word of…friendly advice from one colleague to another, though—“  Will tipped his glass closer, close enough to just almost clink the rim against Chilton’s, held lax as he listened.  “I’d be careful jerking around a predator who’s had a lot of free time to think about how very much he already hates you.” 

It was not his threat to make; he knew better when he said it, and better still on the walk to the car, fresh air in his mouth and the sun hot against his arms where his sleeves had been rolled up.  It wasn’t his to make, and he shouldn’t have said it, but no amount of repetition of those facts could make him sorry. 

For just a moment, Chilton had gone pale as the thinnest linen, and something dark and wild in Will’s chest had fed on that fear like a coveted delicacy.  Ravenous, eating for two. 

\----- 

Even with the dogs to swirl around his feet, coming in the door at home had felt strange in the way it usually only did after weeks away, the odd gut-deep sensation of walking into a place that had stagnated while you were elsewhere, changing.  He was gone hours, not weeks or even days, but the place that had begun to feel nearly as homey and familiar as Wolf Trap had felt suddenly off balance, like the furniture had shifted a quarter turn and he no longer knew the pathways in-between. 

His arm, long bandaged and dry, felt the ghost of Hannibal’s tongue, wet and warm and comforting. Elemental, as automatic as the spreading tingle that came after the first gulp of cider on a winter day. 

It was too hot, now, to be thinking of winter, and he was too tired to be thinking of Hannibal. 

His final visit for the day after he’d seen Chilton had been all too brief, and barely a visit at all.  He’d seen him only from the other side of the glass, and though he’d told himself it was brief for both their sakes he’d felt the lie in that in the twinge that came when he’d drawn his hand away from the glass. 

If he’d gone in, he’d have been tempted to settle into Hannibal’s bed with him to comfort him, and he’d have fallen asleep there.  He was far too tired, far too compromised, and far too comfortable with Hannibal pressed up against his side as he did when they read to each other.  He’d have fallen asleep and Barney would have woken him later, and there would be trouble from it beyond the trouble Will could feel mounting in his own chest.

With a certain degree of accuracy, he’d been able to tell himself that Hannibal’s differences, though marked, were innocent.  Whatever it was, Will no longer felt…

Was innocent even the right term?  If Hannibal was every bit the man Will was, would any…inappropriate feelings not then be entirely appropriate, or did the inherent societal difference make that impossible?  He was in a position of power over Hannibal, whether he wanted to be or not.  As his alpha he’d have held a measure of power regardless, but this was different this was—

Will slammed the refrigerator door, rattling condiments and scaring half the dogs so bad he heard the quick jolt and scrabble of their nails as they jumped aside.  Closing his eyes, he sipped his orange juice slowly, direct from the carton.  It was almost expired, and anyway, there was no one here to judge.  Whatever judgment he’d eventually need to pass on himself for what he’d encouraged today, he couldn’t make it now, either.  He had to sleep.  When he woke up, he might do a better job of remembering why he’d come here.  Not for one parasapient, but hundreds.  His books had reach; he had the potential to affect some measure of change, however slight. 

He had made quiet promises, to himself, and to a version of Anthony that no longer existed.  To Georgia, though only in a letter he’d crumpled up and thrown away.  Could he risk sacrificing all of that for…what?  Something he couldn’t define and certainly wouldn’t allow himself to act on?  It was asinine to even wonder, when he couldn’t bring himself to even hold in his mind the full shape of the question before him—at what point did bonding becoming courting?  Were they still miles away from it, far enough that he could stop Hannibal before they reached it, or were they straddling the line already? 

It sounded insane to even consider it, but then, he’d never accounted for Hannibal, or for the man he’d become himself these last few years.  A gradual change, like water percolating through rock. 

Carrying the juice with him, Will let the dogs out onto the porch and laid down on its slats, the afternoon sun burning red behind his eyelids when he closed them.  None of the pieces fit.  He’d rather leave them for now where they lay, glaring in their inconsistency.  He could go inside and eat, and when he finished take a look at the present he’d stopped on the way home to pick up for Hannibal.  It wasn’t a pre-emptive award for a fight , but a present in the purest sense, given out of affection for no reason beyond the giving itself.

A chance to catch the moment of glimmering wonder in Hannibal’s eyes that came and went like the flash of scales on the surface or the water, the opportunity to savor it the way an alpha would who’d set out to curry favor from a prospective mate.

The sort of gift a man would give a lover. 

Or, the sort of gift given to someone he knew had lived far too long without kindness for kindness’s sake.  He could debate the issue within himself all evening long, but the fact of the matter was that as he’d stood in the store with his fingers on the keys, he hadn’t thought of handing it over to reward Hannibal for not ripping it out his throat.  His mind had, instead, lingered on the memory of Hannibal’s hands cradling his wound, Hannibal’s tongue on his scar. 

The click and shift of the harness falling free, the long expanse of Hannibal’s neck that he’d offered up.  Whether it had been deference or question Will wasn’t sure, but part of him wondered, now, if it might not have been both, and more besides.  A challenge, like the curious nosing of a dog at a door he wasn’t sure he could open.

If Hannibal offered himself up as a mate and not as a subject, would Will see it?  Would he welcome his advances?  Would he return them?

Will arched his back, pressing the back of his skull hard enough against the boards to distract himself as he shifted position.  Whether Hannibal was asking those questions or he was putting them there, he’d raked his mind and motivations hard enough over the coals for one day. 

In the yard, songbirds called the coming of summer.  Clouds drifted out of tempo with whispering young leaves, the wind above and the wind below mismatched.  Anansi’s nails on the porch struck a new beat, and Will held out a hand to welcome him in close.  After redirecting him from snuffling at the bite no less than ten times, he settled with an irritated grumble against Will’s side, nose pressed cold and huffy into his neck. 

He never left the dogs unsupervised outside, never, but he was exhausted and the breeze was soft, and Anansi’s heart beat comfortingly against his own.  Will closed his eyes, and let himself drift.  Spring was a season for risks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the chapter is also a little short. Please forgive me for that, too, but the next one will almost certainly be longer. I know we were on a great schedule before, but I'm not gonna make any scheduling promises for the time being; I'm too afraid of letting you down. If that means you need to not read for a bit and wait until there's a bulk of a few chapters to read at a time, I totally understand. 
> 
> I can promise, though, that chapters will be posted as soon as they're ready, and I can also let you know that in between I will be finishing up Christmas oneshots, working on a likely <20k murder husbands big bang, and posting my first Yuri On Ice fic. (and also working, and job hunting, and trying to hold onto my sanity lmao) 
> 
> You guys are incredible and I unendingly grateful for every last one of you.


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